


A Show of Force

by UnwelcomeStorm



Category: Worm - Wildbow
Genre: AU, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-05-19 18:51:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 22,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5977456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnwelcomeStorm/pseuds/UnwelcomeStorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which being Emma is suffering, even when she gets exactly what she wants.</p><p>Being Taylor, meanwhile, is actually pretty chill. Y'know, in between all the murders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**1.1**  
  
Class ended in five minutes, and all I could think was, _what the hell does Hebert think she's up to_?  
  
Mr. Gladly had been droning on and on about the history of the King's Men for forty-five minutes when Hebert had gotten up from her desk, quietly taken the bright yellow Hall Pass from its hook on the teacher's desk, and exited the class with a murmur about the restroom. And on her way out, she'd dropped a folded note on my desk. Getting her busted for passing notes in class would have been easy, but whatever the note contained was bound to have juicer prospects, I'd reasoned. But the note was disappointingly brief:  
  
Easton park  
5 pm  
  
I folded the note back up and glanced back at Sophia. She'd noticed Hebert's little sneak too, her eyebrows raised at me in questioning. I smirked and flicked my eyes at the clock-- time enough for gossip soon. She gave a slight nod to show she understood. I turned my attention back to the note, and what it meant. It was the first time Hebert had really even tried to interact with-- well, anyone for weeks. Ever since the magnificent sendoff we'd given her at the end of the school year a few months ago, she'd crumpled in on herself like sodden tissues, getting quieter and weaker by the day. I felt myself smile. I wasn't sure how we were going to top ourselves, but winter break was coming next month, and I'd been getting a few ideas. I'd have to share them with Sophia soon, see what she thought.  
  
I glanced at the note again, realizing that I'd already decided to go and see what the scrawny mouse wanted. Of course, I'd ask Sophia to back me up, maybe with something to throw at Hebert-- or better yet, maybe Shadow Stalker, in case Hebert had decided to go psycho where there weren't any witnesses. More likely, she'd cry; I'd better make sure Sophia had a camera.  
  
* * *  
  
Easton Park barely deserved the name. There used to be a daycare nearby, but it had gotten run down and shut down, and now was trapped in a limbo of Grand Openings and For Leases for whatever store tried its hand at occupying the space. The little park had gotten overgrown with weeds and long tufts of grass, and the play equipment was by turns rusted or smeared with graffiti. Why Hebert had chosen the place, I had no idea, but Sophia had scoffed at the idea of an ambush. The place was too open, she said, and not near any really important gang territory. That said, she'd agreed to take her crossbow and find a dark corner to keep watch from, so we'd shown up early to stake the place out.  
  
At 4:45 Hebert arrived, still dressed in her oversized hoodie and baggy jeans, and rather than walking down the street or even the bare dirt pathway, she clumped through a dense patch of weeds for several yards before settling herself on one of the slightly lopsided park benches that dotted the area. I hoped there was some poison ivy still growing out here. I checked my phone and decided to make her wait. At 5:15 she was still there, still sitting on the bench and not even shivering, and I was getting bored. So I strolled out and plastered a sweet smile on my face.  
  
"Taaaay-looor, you wanted to see me? What could you possibly want to meet me for?"  
  
"Hello, Emma." Hebert turned her head up to watch me approach, face as placid and dumb as a cow. I couldn't help but smirk. "I wanted to ask you a question."  
  
"Well, it must be important, to take time out of your busy schedule chewing your cud. Oh, wait, no, it's probably as useless as the rest of you." Hebert's expression didn't even twitch. She'd been getting harder and harder to provoke; it was definitely time to plan something big. Except then, she shrugged.  
  
"Probably, but I need to ask anyway. I just want to know why you keep picking on me. I don't understand it."  
  
Oh, this could get _good_.  
  
"Oh, you wanna know? I'd think it was so obvious even your brain could understand it. It's because you're pathetic, Taylor. You're a weak, insignificant worm just crawling in your own filth." I grinned, showing my teeth, and felt a flush riding high on my cheeks. "You're trash. Useless. Scum. Destined to be some Merchant's whore. Just an ugly, whimpering _prey animal_ , and I'm a _predator_. So I'll step on you as often as I like, and you'll deserve it. That clear enough for you, Taaaay-looor?"  
  
She frowned-- just a little. A slight crease in her brow. "Animals prey on others only when they're hungry. Are you hungry for me, Emma?"  
  
"Ugh! Keep your sick fantasies to yourself, Hebert."  
  
Hebert paused, then continued. "If you're not... then you're hurting me only because you can. Why?" Her stupid cow face even looked confused.  
  
"God, I knew you were stupid, but really? Here, lemme use small words for you, Taylor: you're weak, I'm strong. So I'll do whatever the fuck I feel like to you." I didn't feel like keeping this up. Taylor's stupid, placid face was making me sick to my stomach, the way she just sat there like a frog, like how she just sat there every day, doing nothing, saying nothing. I turned and left; Taylor didn't so much as make a whimper of protest.  
  
* * *  
  
Some time later, with the last light of the day fading and Emma long gone, Taylor still sat on the bench. She frowned, just slightly.  
  
"A show of force, then, hm...?"  
  
A few late-season crickets were all that answered her. Taylor gave a very slight sigh.  
  
Her form on the bench crumbled to ashes, quickly scattered by the crisp autumn breeze.


	2. Chapter 2

**1.2**  
  
The window creaked.  
  
I'd been having trouble sleeping anyway, so the sound was just enough to make me turn towards it, bleary-eyed and squinting. The moon was high, and big enough to cast a silver shadow into the room. I blinked again. Was the window open? It was kept locked during the winter, so how--  
  
Sleep evaporated under cold adrenaline as a hand, long-fingered and cold, slapped itself over my mouth. I screamed; the fingers dug into my cheeks and muffled the sound into a low moan. Someone was sitting on my lap, and spindly legs wrapped around my torso when I moved, pinning my arms to my sides. I twisted, but they just tightened, until I felt my ribs creak louder than the window. Oh God, I was being mugged, I was gonna be killed, or raped, _daddy Sophia someone please HELP ME_  
  
"Hello, Emma."  
  
I stilled, my heart making a painful stuttering lurch. Taylor was in my room, half wrapped around me and with her hand over my mouth. Her hair was pulled back under a dark paisley scarf and her face was as cowlike calm as ever, only suddenly it wasn't funny anymore. In the white witchlight she may as well have been carved from glass.  
  
"I didn't want to do this, Emma, but you've not left me much choice." Taylor's hand, the one not clasped over my mouth, moved. I felt something cold and edged brush lightly across my neck. I whimpered.  
  
"But, I want you to stop hurting me. And if force is the only thing you understand... then I have to do something you'll remember. You understand."  
  
_ssshnk_  
  
I screamed again, but Taylor's hand held firm.  
  
_ssshnk_  
  
There wasn't any pain, and that rasping sound came again: _ssshnk_. Something fell with a soft pat on my pillow. I flicked my eyes down to it, and saw a curl of red. My hair.  
  
She was cutting my hair.  
  
_ssshnk ssshnk_  
  
Taylor's fingers combed through the sleep-tangled locks with a care approaching intimacy, and I felt myself shudder as my stomach twisted. We used to braid each others' hair in the summers, before going to the pool. Taylor kept cutting, her expression silent and closed as stone, and my pillow slowly vanished under my pride. The night air felt cold on my neck and ears.  
  
"There we go. Don't worry, Emma, I'm sure you can neaten it up a bit. You always make any style look good, so this shouldn't be too hard for you." She smiled at me, her teeth small and white and even, and I had a sudden vision of a shark, just as glassy-eyed and calm as Taylor. "But you won't forget this, Emma. Will you." I shook my head. It hadn't been a question.  
  
"That's good. I'm sorry I had to do this, Emma. I hope you won't make me come again." "I shook my head again.  
  
She tucked her scissors into the pocket of her hoodie, and her legs relaxed around my torso. "You'll be quiet while I leave, won't you?" A nod. I tried not to sob.  
  
Taylor took her hand away, and this time I really did sob. She curled off of the bed in one fluid motion and moved to the window, fiddling with the latch and stepping up into the sill. She swung outside on silent feet and closed the window behind her, then jumped. I scrambled to the window--we were on the third story!--and pressed shaking hands against the glass.   
  
Outside, the lawn was deserted and still.


	3. Chapter 3

**1.3**  
  
"There you are! What the hell, Ems, you didn't answer any of my texts and-- ahaha, what? What the fuck did you do?"  
  
I forced a grin, and slid a hand through my hair in an obvious preening gesture. "Like it? Sorry about the quiet spell, didn't want to spoil the surprise is all." Sophia snorted, but smiled in an answering grin and gave me an appreciative once-over. She wasn't the only one, either. Students parted around us in the hall, a gentle current filled with chatter and glances and jealous looks. My hair was cut in a fluffy, layered pixie style, with all the ends carefully highlighted blonde, so my normal red coif was now gilt in gold. By the end of the week, there'd be a lot more girls sporting highlights or similar cuts, I was sure of it.  
  
"Yeah, it looks good. Did you seriously play hooky for a day just to get a makeover?" I smirked, she grinned, the day of silence put behind us and covered with a new blouse, a manicure, a spritz of perfume. We moved on.  
  
"Too easy. Told my parents I felt sick and then snuck out as soon as they left for work. Easy to fake, I just had to think of Hebert's face. It'd make anybody's stomach turn." There were a few twitters of agreement around us, and I felt my shoulders relax a bit. Sophia started talking about an upcoming track and field event, and I nodded in all the right places. Even with the slight elevation in my shoes, she was much taller than me, and looking up at her profile it was easy to imagine her hooded cloak, to see Shadow Stalker.  
  
"Hey, you got a free period today, right?" We both knew she did. "Wanna meet up? I want to talk about something." Sophia turned to look at me, expression questioning. Eyes appraising. Judging.  
  
I felt my hand start to creep towards my hair again, and redirected it to my purse.  
  
"Hebert's getting off easy, I think. It's time to do something big, yeah? Make a real show of it... so she knows her place, yeah?"  
  
"Ha, sure. You got any ideas? Maybe we-- hey, move it, asshole!" Sophia gave a nearby jock a shove, but he just looked at her, then turned away. It didn't look like there was room for him to be pushed aside, anyway. The locker hallways were always crowded at this time of the morning, but today the throng was almost a wall. Sophia started shoving her way forward, and I drifted along behind her, something uncoiling in my stomach. The murmurs of the crowd didn't quite cover Sophia's startled 'What the _fuck_...' as we broke through into the perfect half-circle of taboo ground around Sophia's locker.  
  
There was _something_ puddled around the foot of Sophia's locker, a thick sludge that looked black and jellied. A stench was lingering in the air, a thick, sick-sweet smell I could almost taste coating the back of my throat. The something had dribbled out of the foot and the slits at the top of the locker, and left rust-brown streaks over the green painted metal door. I felt my stomach try to curl in on itself. I knew what the sludge was.  
  
_Oh, no._  
  
"What the _FUCK_! Who did this?! You-- fuckin' asshole, come out!" Sophia raged, baring her teeth at the crowd, who were moving back and shuffling away from the scene. I heard someone ask if they should call for the police.  
  
_Oh, no, no, no._  
  
Through gaps in the cluster of onlookers, I saw down the hall, where other students lurked, too afraid to come closer and involve themselves. Halfway down the row was one locker covered in graffiti and scratches. I heard it click closed even over the roaring in my ears.  
  
_no no no nononono_  
  
Taylor hefted her backpack on her shoulder as she retrieved her books from her locker, but she wasn't looking at them. She was looking at me, expression neutral.  
  
Eyes appraising.  
  
Judging.


	4. Chapter 4

**1.4**  
  
**  
Welcome to the Parahumans Online Message Boards**  
You are currently logged in,  LovelyGinger  
You are viewing:  
• Threads you have replied to  
• AND Threads that have new replies  
• OR private message conversations with new replies  
• Thread OP is displayed  
• Ten posts per page  
• Last ten messages in private message history  
• Threads and private messages are ordered by user custom preference.  
_  
You have entered a Private Chatroom with JungleCat_  
  
  
**JungleCat** Well, this has been a fucked up week  
  
**LovelyGinger** There u are!!! Talk to me, what happened!  
  
**JungleCat** Got Blackwell to head off the cops and call PRT, sucks but I had to  
  
**JungleCat ** I had my bag in there, y’know?  
  
**LovelyGinger** Ur bookbag??  
  
**JungleCat** My OTHER bag  
  
**LovelyGinger** Oh shit  
  
**JungleCat** Yeah, and it gets worse  
  
**JungleCat** The bag was open, all my spare shit covered in blood  
  
**LovelyGinger** Eeew  
  
**JungleCat** Put a fire under everybody’s asses, cause it means whoever got in my locker opened it up  
  
**LovelyGinger** What?  
  
**JungleCat** Fucker saw my spare costume bits, I know it. Bag had been gone through, nothing missing  
  
**LovelyGinger** Shit  
  
**LovelyGinger** Shit that’s bad  
  
**JungleCat** No shit it’s bad  
  
**JungleCat ** Piggy’s going insane  
  
**JungleCat** Now whatever nazi fuck did this knows who I am  
  
**LovelyGinger** Shit  
  
**JungleCat ** Heard the suits wondering if I should be shipped off to boston  
  
**JungleCat** I know the pig bitch would love to trade me  
  
**LovelyGinger** Fuck fuck fuck  
  
**JungleCat** Know the weird part? Lab nerds said the blood was beef  
  
**JungleCat** All filled with dyes and preservatives and shit  
  
**LovelyGinger** The hell is that supposed to mean  
  
**JungleCat** Means somebody robbed a butcher store  
  
**JungleCat ** Hell, I g2g, armsy wants another talk about e88 kids in school  
  
**JungleCat** later  
  
**LovelyGinger** Wait, soph I need to talk to you  
  
_User JungleCat has left._  
  
  
  
I kept staring at the screen. That dark coil had twisted out of my stomach and into my throat, growing tighter. Everything was wrong, everything.  
  
Taylor was the one who filled Sophia’s locker with blood, I was sure of it. I didn’t know how she’d gotten the combination, but she’d proven she could get into my house without any trouble. She knew where I lived, where I slept. She probably knew Sophia was Shadow Stalker. That should have scared her off, made her back away, but—  
  
I thought of that cool, empty look in her eyes. Her face used to tighten with fear and dread when she saw me, but not anymore. She didn’t fear me, and she didn’t fear Sophia. Didn’t even fear Shadow Stalker. It was all wrong.  
  
I started chewing on my nails, the paint and gloss bitter on my tongue. This was my fault. I’d told Taylor how things worked, instead of letting her squirm in ignorance. I’d told her that I could mess with her, because I was stronger. Now she knew the rules.  
  
Now, if she saw me as weak, she’d run rampant over me. I knew Taylor—had known her. She didn’t do things halfway. I _could not_ let her beat me.  
  
Sophia couldn’t help me if she got moved away. Daddy couldn’t help me, since Taylor had shown my home was no sanctuary. I had to make myself safe from her.  
  
In Brockton Bay, there’s only one way to be safe.  
  
I had to get powers.


	5. Chapter 5

**1.5 Interlude: Danny**  
  
"Daaaaaad!"  
  
"Yeah kiddo?"  
  
"Where are Mom's theory books?"  
  
"In the basement."  
  
"Yeah in the basement, but where in the basement? It's crazy dark down here!"  
  
Daniel Hebert frowned, then cast around for the television remote. "Just a sec, I'll come look." The remote was stubbornly hiding from view, likely lodged between the cushions of the new couch, and he abandoned the search after a few seconds. Danny hefted himself to his feet and turned towards the basement, letting the television continue its droning in the background. He made a quick stop by the kitchen to pluck a flashlight from a drawer, then headed down the stairs into the (admittedly dark) cellar. Maybe it was time to pick up some new lightbulbs...  
  
Danny found Taylor perched atop an old, dust-streaked coffee table, rummaging through a cardboard box and stacking an increasing number of books in a pile at her side. He directed the beam of the flashlight at the stack and felt his brows raise.  
  
"Textbooks? Something in particular you're looking for?"  
  
"Yeah. Mom did a sociology course one year, do you remember? The last instructor had retired and they hadn't hired a new one yet, so she had to pick up the slack... this box is all American Lit." She changed tack immediately, returning the books to the box with crisp efficiency. She left one out, then closed the box and returned it to the pile. Danny started checking labels on the far side of the stack, while Taylor continued her exploration of the near. It was quite a while of dusty labor before Taylor announced her victory, pulling a few thin folders of papers and a textbook from a box helpfully labeled 'Misc.'  
  
"Here it is. Frank Tannenbaum."  
  
"Great. So we can start dinner now?" He didn't mind looking through Annette's old things, exactly... well, yes, he did. It was easier to leave things buried. But Taylor had been growing into herself lately, getting more active, more driven. It was a welcome change from the awkwardness of the past year or so. She'd even brought home some steak tips as a surprise the other day, and they'd had a friendly rehash of the long-standing argument over whether or not pineapples were suitable additions to a kebab.  
  
"Casserole tonight," he said, walking up the stairs after Taylor, the two books and collection of papers tucked under her arm, "Salad too. What's so interesting about Tennenbalm?"  
  
"Tannenbaum. He formed the basis of societal reaction theory. Stuff about how labels define people."  
  
"And the other?" He glanced at the television, finally spotting the truant remote resting atop a pillow. It was the same droning documentary, showing a stock photo of a silver woman, her eyes closed and hands folded over her chest as though in prayer. He flipped the channel to the news.  
  
"Complete works of Edgar Allen Poe. Wanted some light reading."


	6. Chapter 6

  
**1.6**  
  
  
The days until winter break seemed to slow to a crawl.  
  
  
Sophia had been pulled out of school, officially to visit some relatives out of state, but I think everyone knew that was bullshit, even if they didn’t know where she really was. You couldn’t exactly have crime scene investigators practically setting up camp in the school and pretend everything was peachy. I knew Sophia was staying at the PRT base with some of the other live-in Wards, a fact she railed against at length whenever she managed some time to chat. And that, too, was curtailed; one of the first things Sophia had done was shove her phone into my bag and tell me to hide it. She kept a decoy, a phone of the same make and model that she’d text to me on occasionally, just to have a history on it. I understood: if the PRT wanted to comb through her things, looking for clues as to whom she’d been targeted by, then Sophia could not risk them finding all our text logs, or Sophia’s trophy pictures.  
  
  
I understood, but a small, weak part of me wished I could use the phone as proof. I still hadn’t told anyone about Taylor. Instead, I did what I could to protect myself.  
  
  
I steered conversations away from her among my other friends and hangers-on. I faked headaches and lounged in the nurse’s office as often as I could during shared classes. I kept my head high and laughed at the latest gossip. I glued my windows shut. I chewed my nails ragged. And I looked everywhere I could online, trying to find how to get powers.  
  
  
At least half of what I found were scams, blatant or just full of computer viruses. Maybe a third were websites belonging to anti-parahuman interest groups. A scarce few looked verified: powers were something you were born with, kinda. People with powers all had something extra in their brains, a corona and a gemma, and people who might get powers only had a corona. Normal people didn’t have either, and there were lots of debate on news forums on whether MRI scans in childhood should be mandatory or not, to check for which kids had the potential to be parahumans.  
  
  
Powers couldn’t be gotten if you didn’t already have the means. It was circular and bullshit. I wished I’d asked Sophia more about it, but she’d never told me much.  
  
  
By the time the winter break was about to start, I was feeling absolutely run ragged. Class was dragging, I had ruined my press-on nails by reflex nibbling, and I desperately wanted to talk to Sophia.  
  
  
As if on cue, my phone bleeped inside my purse. I froze, completely nonchalant, but the teacher—some substitute, I really didn’t care—didn’t turn around. I glanced at Taylor, but she was still reading. And she didn’t have a phone, anyway. I slipped my phone from my purse and held it under my desk, then thumbed for the text.  
  
  
It wasn’t from Sophia.  
  
  
_Your questions have not gone unnoticed  
Go to the Clearview Coffee Shoppe at 4:30  
Be prepared to change your life_

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

  
**1.7**  
  
  
When the representative I’d been called to meet—he’d introduced himself as ‘Mr. H’—asked me to follow him to his office, I’d expected to find a middling class study or something similar, renting space in the same building as the Clearview Coffee Shoppe. Instead, he’d opened a simple swing door marked ‘Employees Only’ and stepped through, making an abrupt transition from worn wood flooring to impressively-sterile looking linoleum. I balked, and Mr. H gave a knowing glance towards the doorframe. I followed his gaze and saw a clear dividing line, a faint shimmering _edge_ laid just over the inside of the coffee-seller’s doorframe. I guess it was confirmation enough that I’d found something real.  
  
  
He led me through a number of fluorescent-lit corridors, not even making an attempt at small talk. The steady _click-click-click_ of our shoes was making the hair rise on the back of my neck. I swallowed, then discreetly wiped the sweat from my palms.  
  
  
“What is this place? The, ah… note didn’t say.”  
  
  
“There isn’t a name for it,” Mr. H replied, not even turning to look at me, “or at least nothing you’ll find in a directory. Employees here tend to refer to it as _Pars Fortuna_.”  
  
  
“Is that Latin?”  
  
  
“Yes.”  
  
  
He didn’t elaborate, and suddenly I didn’t feel like asking any further, because just then he reached a door. We’d passed several, but this one had a simple tag set at the top. It read, ‘Consultations.’ Mr. H opened it without knocking.  
  
  
“Doctor Romana, Emma Barnes here to see you.” He ushered me inside and shut the door behind me.  
  
  
Doctor Romana was a young black woman, wearing a crisply clean lab coat and with her hair pulled back in a professional bun. Her office looked a lot like Daddy’s, only it was missing the framed certificates of achievements and education. The Doctor’s coat lacked a name tag, too. I started to have doubts that she’d gone to med school.  
  
  
“Miss Barnes, welcome. Please, have a seat.”  
  
  
I did, while taking a moment to try and figure out the Doctor’s accent. French? Itallian? Something European.  
  
  
“You are here because you wish to be a Parahuman. We can do this for you. This service is not free, however, so this meeting will be to negotiate what we want from each other. First of all, is there a particular power you have in mind?”  
  
  
Directly to the point. I straightened in my chair. I’d haggled for my modeling contracts, I could do this.  
  
  
“I live in Brockton Bay, it’s got a lot of gangs and villains. I need to be stronger so I can be safe. So I take them on.”  
  
  
Doctor Romana reached for a thin manila folder and opened it, skimming the contents. “Brockton Bay; we’ve heard of it. Medium-sized city, shipping economy heavily disrupted by String Theory’s Gambit, leading to an economic recession and subsequential rise in crime. Unusually high concentration of parahumans.” She looked back from the folder to me. “You have ambitions of heroism?”  
  
  
“Sure. I mean, of course.” It was an appealing prospect. Once I had powers, I could join Sophia on her patrols, and we could clean up the city together. I started to feel more excited.  
  
  
Dorctor Romana nodded, then quoted some numbers. I felt the blood drain from my face. That was a lot of zeroes.  
  
  
“We have a number of payment plans and negotiable options.” She had the faintest smile on her face, and I flushed in embarrassment.  
  
  
“Firstly, because you have not expressed desire for a specific powerset, we can drastically reduce the price by implementing your power in a single session, rather than taking multiple encounters to tailor a power to your desires. Naturally, this adds a measure of uncertainty to the affair, but we rarely have dissatisfied clients even so.”  
  
  
That was a gamble and I knew it. It would have been nice to design a power, but truthfully I wasn’t sure where to start. And again, that had been a _lot_ of zeroes. I nodded.  
  
  
“Additionally, as I know your finances are not up to the task of a full payment—you are after all a minor—we can further reduce the cost by leveraging favors in place of currency.”  
  
  
“What sort of favors?”  
  
  
“All sorts of favors, limited by your capability, location, and legal alignment. In short, once you contract with us, we will occasionally request certain things from you, be they jobs, items, or actions. Each favor will be assigned a substantial value, which will be deducted from your debt to us upon completion. You may also speed this process by depositing payments to your account in a more traditional fashion, of course.”  
  
  
“And what does that bring the price to?”  
  
  
The number she gave this time was still large, but not as crushingly. Once Sophia and I were successful heroes, I could pay that debt easily, I was sure. “I accept.”  
  
  
Doctor Romana nodded. “Very well. I will prepare for your session with Fortuna, and Geas will be in shortly to go over your contract.”  
  
“Geas?” I asked, but she had already risen and walked briskly to the door, where she stepped past a new visitor, this one a slightly effeminate-looking man in business clothes. Geas, I assumed. He had a thin bundle of papers in one hand, which he placed in front of me, alongside an expensive-looking fountain pen.  
  
  
“A fairly standard contract, Doctor Romana’s already gone over the big things with you.” He took a seat next to me without asking, pushing his chair so that he sat facing me. “Here, let me go over it with you—“  
  
  
“—and that’s about it.” He smiled. He had very pretty eyes. “So just sign there at the X, and you’re done.”  
  
  
I looked down. The bundle of papers was flipped to the last page, where a line waited for my signature. We’d gone over it already? I supposed so. I signed my name with a flourish.  
  
  
Doctor Romana was at the door. “She is ready for you. Follow me.”  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
“—Once the automatic sanitation completes, the door will open. Focusing strongly on what you want for your power will make things easier, though not guaranteed, so be prepared for variation. Once you are ready, step into the Wheel.”  
  
  
I nodded at the intercom, and immediately felt a bit silly for doing so. My stomach was doing flips and my heart was beating so quick I could feel it in my fingertips. Even the startling jolt of the sanitizing spray filling the small airlock room couldn’t dampen my smile. This was it. I was really going to get powers. The door in front of me opened with a hiss, and I stepped gingerly into the next room.  
  
  
What greeted me was two rooms, or very nearly; the large open space was divided by a thick glass barrier between me and the rest of the room. I noticed the red line near my feet first, a large circle painted over the floor of the entire room, with just a bare foot or so of space between the edge closest to me and the glass barrier. At the very center of the room, maybe fifteen feet or so away, was another circle, and this one was occupied by two people. One was a man in hospital scrubs, standing silently and with his gaze fixed in the middle distance, and as unnerving as his blank stare was, the woman was worse.  
  
  
In the center of the painted circle was a woman in a wheelchair, who had very pale skin and dark hair. Her hair was glossy enough and obviously cared for, but I couldn’t say the same for the rest of her. She was thin, her limbs shrunken in a way that only years of stillness could create. The wheelchair was equipped with soft foam pads to keep her arms and legs from bumps and bruises, and I spotted a discreet brace under her chin to support her neck. She must have been paralyzed, completely so, and I saw her dark eyes flitting back and forth, uncontrolled. After a moment, they locked on mine. I shuddered.  
  
  
_I have to do this. I want to get stronger._  
  
  
_I_ have _to get stronger._  
  
  
_I have to get **stronger**._  
  
  
I stepped into the Wheel.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**1.8 Interlude: Alan Gramme**  
  
  
Mechanical sounds dominated the large, immaculately groomed study. Keyboard keys tapped at a frantic pace, an antique clock on the wall _ticked_ and _tocked_ , a desk fan whirred, causing papers to flick and flutter against the containment of various paperweights.  
  
  
“Alan?”  
  
  
“Mm?” Alan didn’t look away from the array of screens before him, each filled with calculations and numbers and diagrams.  
  
  
“Alan, you missed dinner. Again.”  
  
  
The tired warning in Catherine’s voice made him turn around, a nodule of guilt settling in his belly. “Oh… I’m sorry, sweetheart. I got absorbed in work.”  
  
  
“Alan, you can’t keep doing this.” Catherine shook her head, and while her voice was full of rebuke, her face just looked tired. Resigned.  
  
  
“Honey, you know this is important. I’m sure that with a bit more time, I---“  
  
  
“It’s the deployment shuttle, isn’t it.” There wasn’t any doubt, and Catherine’s expression grew hard. “You’ve been going over it for years, Alan. There is nothing new to find. You have to let it go.”  
  
  
“Catherine, this is important.”  
  
  
“Your _family_ is important!” Catherine stomped one foot on the floor of the study, and Alan flinched in spite of himself. “Are you just going to waste away in here, is that what you want? You’ve been ignoring us, all of us—you don’t come to meals, you don’t go to Susan’s dance recitals, you couldn’t be bothered to take Mary to her first day of school—do you even fucking care anymore, Alan?”  
  
  
“Catherine, let me—“  
  
  
She held up her hand, forestalling him. “No. No, Alan. I’ve heard it all before.” She huffed, and half turned to look at the clock on the wall. They both knew that she was a proud woman; she pretended that she wasn’t wiping at her eyes, and he pretended not to see.  
  
  
“The girls are in the car. We’re going to go stay with my parents at the farm for a while. A week, maybe.” Catherine turned to look at him, eyes red-rimmed and lips taut with fear. “By the time we come back, I want to know if you’re going to be part of this family or not. Goodnight, Alan.”  
  
  
Her shoes clicked on the floor, the sound growing fainter until it was finished with the distant slam of a car door. Alan leaned back in his chair. This was not within his calculations. He sat there, with the ticking of the clock, and let time pass unmarked until something bumped against his leg, insistent. Alan reached down and scooped up the cat, the action nearly automatic.  
  
  
“Hey, Minnie-kins.” The cat meowed, and Alan stroked the smooth ceramic of its sides. It began to purr, a low synthetic rumble. When little Susan’s pet cat Minnie had been hit by a car a few years ago, Alan had been quick to salvage as much of the animal as possible, and had used his knowledge to build the feline a new body. Reactions of the rest of the family had been mixed.  
  
  
“If only fixing everything was as easy as you, hm?” Alan looked back at the computer screens. He could have recited the numbers and formulas there in his sleep.  
  
  
“It should have worked, Minnie. It was perfect, all of it—my contained modular systems, with Hero’s technology in the rockets and shuttle… we should have had a dozen orbital space stations by now. It _should have worked_.” Minnie offered no comment, but began to knead its vinyl-coated claws into Alan’s pant leg.  
  
  
“It was perfect,” Alan said, turning his head back towards where Catherine had marched out the door. “So why does it all come apart?”


	9. Chapter 9

  
**1.9**  
  
  
Returning to Winslow after the winter break, I felt like a queen. Students parted around me like a wave, the more bold socialites drifting along behind me, soaking up prestige even in my wake. I wondered if they could sense that I was somehow different, now. Different from them, stronger than them. Better than them.  
  
  
_Pars Fortuna_ had been true to their word. I had powers now, good ones. I felt more solid now, though a quick check of the bathroom scale had thankfully not listed me as heavier, and when my parents were out of the house, I’d experimentally tried lifting one side of the old oak dining table. It had felt no heavier than my backpack—I hadn’t even broken a sweat! And that wasn’t the best part. I couldn’t resist a grin as I turned down the hall, towards the lockers, my coterie following.  
  
  
I’d cut myself shaving my legs a few days ago, but when I wiped away the foam, there wasn’t any blood, nor was there a nick. I’d confirmed my suspicions with a kitchen knife later on, when the small cut healed itself in only a moment, not even leaving a scar. I was a regenerator! I couldn’t be hurt, not really, and now I had the power to dish out hurt to anyone who tried. I’d spent the rest of the break shopping for costume pieces online. I couldn’t wait to get out there and show Sophia what I could do.  
  
  
I frowned, passing Hebert’s graffiti-ed up locker and lengthening my stride. Sophia still hadn’t called or texted… but that was okay. I could do this without her, and catch her up on things once she was done with whatever. For now, it was time for a show.  
  
  
I closed in on Hebert, the pack behind me starting to fragment into those who wanted to curry favor and participate, and those that just wanted to watch. My prey hadn’t looked up yet—was that a phone in her hand?—and she’d made the mistake of being in my way. More importantly, she was next to the stairwell. I smiled, reached out, and _shoved_.  
  
  
Just a light push was enough to make Hebert clear the first few steps before gravity took over, and the look of shock on her face was echoed by the gasps behind me. Somebody yelped, a few people took a quick step back, but everyone saw Hebert tumble down the stairs like a doll, her worn book bag splitting open and sending her scrawled-on textbooks everywhere. When she rolled to a stop and looked up, dazed, the naked hurt in her eyes—it was the best reaction she’d had in far too long. I bared my teeth in a grin.  
  
  
“Oh, Taylor! So _clumsy_! What a way to start the day, huh?” I saw her eyes flick to the sides, eying the crowd around me. Nobody had left to call a teacher, and I knew nobody would; I saw the instant she realized it too, because her face went slack and blank again.  
  
  
“Well, I hope you enjoyed the break, Taylor. I know I did. But it’s back to the grindstone now, hmm?” I loomed over the stairwell, students behind me starting to fidget, a few nervous titters and steps away; class was about to start, I supposed. That was fine, I had the rest of the day to make sure the lesson was learned. I laughed, turning away. I had the rest of the school year.  
  
  
I hadn’t even taken a step when a hand, long-fingered and cold, clamped onto the back of my neck and _pulled_.  
  
  
I shrieked, students at the top of the stairs scattering—I hadn’t even heard Taylor climb up!—then my vision exploded into bright stars as I smashed down onto the steps, rolling backwards. I stopped, felt blood in my hair. _How dare she!_  
  
  
“You—you _bitch_!” I screamed, squinting upwards. Taylor was poised near the top of the stairs, watching me warily. The other students were backing away, eyes wide, none of them bothering to help or to punish the impertinent whore. I snarled, and this time someone else screamed.  
  
  
“You don’t get to—I’ll fuck you up! I’ll fuck you up so hard you’ll never want to look at me again!” I heard shouts—now people knew it was a fight. That was fine. I could fight. I _wanted_ to fight. I’d bounce back from it, and Taylor never would. I’d make sure of it.  
  
  
I scrambled up the stairs, my nails leaving thin scrapes in the tiled floor, and Taylor retreated quickly, taking several steps back, but keeping her eyes on me. I swung for her as soon as I reached the top of the stairs, but she hopped back, just out of reach. I snarled again, swung again—this time my outstretched nails reached just a little bit farther, and Taylor’s shirt parted like butter, red blooming on her front. I saw her eyes go wide.  
  
  
“You’ll learn your place!” I lunged for her, but she ducked under my swing and I hit the row of lockers, the metal panes denting and tearing under my claws. I felt a fist hit my back, just over my kidneys. Taylor could hit harder than I’d thought, but not hard enough. My skin itched, and I felt it growing thicker to shield against further blows. I could hear pounding feet and yells, all over the school it seemed like. I needed to finish this quickly.  
  
  
“I’ll make shure you never—hyou’re weak, Taylor! I’m shronger, and---“  
  
  
Pain, sudden and sharp, on my thigh. Looking down, I saw a pocketknife embedded through my jeans. She had stabbed me. She had stabbed me! I bared my teeth, thick saliva building under my tongue, and looked down at—  
  
  
Looked down—  
  
  
I was looking down at Taylor. Tall and gangly Taylor, and I was taller than her. I saw my hand at my side, claws readied to swipe, skin turning greenish and rough and crosshatched like the scaled hide of a lizard. My jaw felt strange.  
  
  
“Wha—wha’d ‘oo do? Wha’d ‘oo do d’me!” Taylor started running, now, and I moved to chase her. The halls were abandoned. Evacuated.  
  
  
“’Oo bith! Oo bith, ah’ll ‘ill ‘oo!” I fumbled the words, and thick drool slipped from my twisted lips. It hissed when it hit the ground, a tendril of acrid smoke rising. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t right at all. I looked up and saw Taylor’s ponytail disappear around the corner, down the hall. I’d only taken my eyes off her for a second, when had she gotten so fast? I heard her pounding footfalls clearly, I heard distant yells and the fire alarm blaring. I heard sirens.  
  
  
I heard a motorcycle.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

  
**1.10**  
  
  
“Well, this is a fine disaster we have here.”  
  
  
Sitting in the PRT’s Interview Room with my arms and legs cuffed to the too-hard chair via tinkertech bands, trapped between the heavy stares of the local Protectorate and Daddy’s ashen grimace, I couldn’t help but agree.  
  
  
Emily Piggot was a lean, hard-faced woman who looked like she belonged more in the PRT’s combat fatigues than in the three-piece business suit she was sporting. Behind her stood Miss Militia, her face covered by her flag bandanna as always, and Armsmaster, whose visor was fixed firmly on me. I shivered, and cast a glance at the hero’s halberd; my chest still felt bruised from the electric shock it had dispensed. To my left was Daddy, looking more harried and grim than I’d ever seen him.  
  
  
On the table was bolted a monitor, hooked directly into Armsmaster’s video surveillance systems. Pictured was a still frame of a monster, a mottled green hunched-over thing, with a split jaw slavering with slime and wearing the stretched and ruined blouse and jeans combo I’d put on that morning. I looked away from it. Piggot tapped a button on the small remote she held, and I heard the video rewind a bit and play again. The monster shrieked in frustration until Armsmaster electrocuted it, before burying it in containment foam. Lots of containment foam. I saw Daddy’s knuckles whiten just a bit more.  
  
  
“Your daughter has triggered as a parahuman, allegedly following a break-in perpetrated by one Taylor Hebert.” That was what I’d told them. I couldn’t exactly remember why, but I thought I’d meant to say something else. Armsmaster hadn’t taken his eyes off me since.  
  
  
“I say allegedly because this was never reported to the police, nor to you it seems, Mr. Barnes, and the timing of the accusation is rather suspect to say the least, considering Miss Barnes attacked Miss Hebert today, in front of a full dozen or more witnesses.” Daddy didn’t say anything. I felt like that was a bad sign. “Assaulting a normal human with a parahuman power is a very serious crime.”  
  
  
“But you said—you stated that Taylor was under suspicion of being a parahuman too. That’s a lower sentence, there’s precedent---“  
  
  
“Under _suspicion_ , Mr. Barnes. That means unsubstantiated, pending investigation.”  
  
  
“I know what it means.”  
  
  
“Do you know what it means for Miss Barnes? It means there are very few options that don’t result in your daughter going to a high-security prison for a very, very long time. Even if Miss Hebert were to be confirmed as a parahuman, your daughter was the aggressor here; she struck first, according to multiple witness accounts. And she quickly resorted to lethal force.” Piggot gestured at the monitor, and I sneaked a glance out of reflex. Around the foamed-up mass were large rents in the floor and walls, accompanied by acid scoring.  
  
  
Wait. Prison? The word jogged something in my memory, and I spit the idea out before the day could get any worse.  
  
  
“H-hey, wait—what about plea bargains?”  
  
  
Piggot frowned, focusing on me. Daddy shifted in his seat. “What about them, Miss Barnes?”  
  
  
“It’s—I give you something juicy, and you reduce my punishment, right?”  
  
  
Armsmaster spoke next, voice just as gravelly as I’d expected. “Do you have something of interest to us, Miss Barnes?”  
  
  
Daddy shifted again, but I nodded my head quickly. “Yes. Sophia’s phone—Shadow Stalker’s, I mean. Her real one.” Sorry, Sophia.  
  
  
“Emma, what—“  
  
  
I bit my lip, trying to look a bit scared. I’m sure it wasn’t hard, all things considered. “She ordered me to hide it. There’s—there’s pictures on it, I saw… they’re not pretty.”  
  
  
Piggot and Armsmaster exchanged a glance, and when Piggot spoke again her voice was carefully even. “We might be able to come to an agreement, but even a plea bargain will not erase your actions. Mr. Barnes, in light of the circumstances, I recommend remanding Emma over to us as a ward of the PRT.”  
  
  
Daddy inhaled, sharply. I wasn’t sure why. “You mean I’d get to be a hero?”  
  
  
Piggot snorted—actually snorted—and I suddenly understood why Sophia had always called her ‘Piggy.’ “Oh, there’s a hell of a long way to go before _you_ could be called a hero. If conditions are favorable enough you might be inducted into the Wards under Level Three probation, but I’m talking lowercase wards, Miss Barnes.”  
  
  
Miss Milita coughed, the first sound I’d heard her make in quite a while. “Parahuman minors, if circumstances warrant or if the parahuman’s needs cannot be realistically met by their current guardians, can be surrendered to the care of the PRT. Literal wards of the state, Emma.”  
  
  
There was silence for a moment. I looked at Daddy, and his face was pale. Why hadn’t he said anything yet?  
  
  
Piggot took over for Miss Militia, saying, “Once legal custody is given over to the PRT, we would be responsible for her care, education, and parahuman activity.” She gave Daddy a knowing look that I _really_ didn’t like. “There are many precedents, it’s rather uncomfortable for normals to try and take legal responsibility for a parahuman. Few people can handle the ramifications of a parahuman’s actions on their family, or business. Property damage claims alone can be overwhelming.” She gestured at the monitor, but I didn’t look.  
  
  
“Daddy?”  
  
  
He looked down, not at me.  
  
“Daddy, you wouldn’t… wouldn’t really…” His face was so pale. I felt my stomach drop into my feet.  
  
  
He swallowed. “I’m sorry, sweetie.”

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**1.11**  
  
  
Four months in lockdown.  
  
  
Lying sprawled on my dorm bed, staring at the ceiling, I couldn’t believe how long it had been. The PRT had been nothing if not efficient; as soon as Daddy had signed the release of custody forms, I’d been pulled out of school, moved into a PRT dorm, and placed under house arrest. No smartphone, no internet, no shopping sprees, no credit card—I had a tv, but it didn’t get any of the good channels. Just an endless battery of tests, academic and power-related, and a weekly therapy session with an on-site doctor. And wasn’t _tha_ t a bunch of bullshit. Lots and lots of breathing exercises and fake-smiles and _Emma, why don’t you tell me about your hobbies?_ and _Emma, how was life at home?_ and _Emma, do you want to talk about Taylor today?_  
  
  
There was a family photo on my nightstand, placed resolutely face-down. No, Dr. Pointless Bullshit, I did not want to talk about my family. There’d been letters, at first, but they’d tapered down as the weeks turned into months. The last had been from my sister, and I’d noticed the return address was from some place in Colorado. And the less I had to talk about Hebert, the better. I’d asked a few times, in the beginning. Eventually I’d been informed that she hadn’t been seen since The Incident. The trooper I’d asked said that, with the threat of being targeted by a parahuman, she’d likely run away and joined a gang for protection. The look on her face had clearly said that she thought it was _my_ fault.  
  
  
I knew better. I’d seen how she moved, or rather I’d not seen. If the PRT didn’t know where Hebert was, it meant she could be _anywhere_.  
  
  
The intercom set into my door buzzed. I glanced at the clock and sighed. A meeting with Armsmaster was not my idea of fun, but it was better to go to him than to wait for him to track me down. I got up, then opened the door and stepped into the hall, where a PRT trooper was waiting to scan my bracelet and escort me to the tinker’s office.  
  
  
_* * *_  
  
  
“Miss Barnes, a pleasure.” Right. I took a seat, uninvited, but I doubted Armsmaster cared that much about courtesy. Even speaking to me he didn’t look at me, instead focusing on fiddling with an open panel on a spare gauntlet, poking its innards with the tiniest screwdriver I’d ever seen. “Congratulations are in order.”  
  
“…okay? On what?”  
  
  
“You’ve lasted three months without a disciplinary incident.” Was that a hint of incredulity? “Which means you’re cleared to enter the Wards as a Level Three probationary member. You will be publicly introduced in costume, as a parahuman on temporary loan from New York, to test for placement in Brockton Bay. Understand that this is a cover measure both for the sake of your identity, as well as for PRT liability: if you are deemed unfit for the Brockton Bay Wards, you will be shipped out to somewhere else.” I nodded. Armsmaster grunted, closed the panel he was working in, then opened another. He took a moment away from his tinkering to slide a manila folder across the desk to me.  
  
  
“Your new alias and costume. You will be partnered with the other Wards for training and evaluation for a period of no less than six months, your freedom of movement dictated by their willingness to escort you.” My heart leapt into my throat. All I had to do was get into good graces with a few of the Wards, and I’d be free to finally leave this dreary place. I wondered if Vista liked shopping.  
  
  
“If your peer review and disciplinary records are still acceptable in six months, your tracking bracelet will be removed, and you will be downgraded to Level Two probationary status…”  
  
  
I nodded, turning my attention to the folder instead. I flipped it open, revealing renders of me in costume. Made of a stretchy tinkerfab material, it was a black bodysuit paired with shorts and a jacket, patterned in the faux-camo popular with middle-class designer brands. The mottled green pattern reminded me of my scales—not my first choice—and they wanted me to dye my hair _brown_ , ugh. I was about to protest when I saw the name in the page’s header.  
  
  
“You’re joking.”  
  
  
Armsmaster looked up, and I swear I could feel his stare behind that visor. I clarified, “The name. This can’t be my cape name!”  
  
  
“The decision is final, Miss Barnes. Based on the projected progression of your changer form, it was deemed appropriate… besides, Dragon is taken.”  
  
  
“There has got to be something better.”  
  
  
“It’s not my decision, Miss Barnes.” He frowned, and for the first time I thought I heard some measure of sympathy in his voice. “I know that a cape alias is important, and this is likely not your first choice. You can opt to be re-branded when you come of age, in a few years.” I grimaced. Knowing it was the best offer I’d get didn’t make it any better.  
  
  
“Best go meet your new teammates, Miss Barnes. Try to make a good impression.”  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
The PRT trooper escorted me to the Wards’ common room before handing me my new access badge. I scowled at the late delivery, but swiped it through the reader, and stepped inside. My first impression was good; there was a long sectional couch in front of a large screen television, and my eyes were immediately drawn to the selection of movies and games shelved nearby. I also spotted a few desks, a table and chairs, even a kitchenette off to the side. In short, a lot more welcoming than my current dorm.  
  
  
The room was almost empty of occupants at the moment. I spotted whom I assume was Kid Win on the couch; there were bits and bobs of tinkertech spread around him like an aura of detritus. He gave me a distracted wave before focusing intently on the tv. I glanced at it, but it was just the news, a woman report speaking, “…still no leads on the continued disappearance of premier tinker Alan Gramme…” Right, of course Kid Win would be interested in that. I tuned it out and focused on the other Ward, to see that she’d left her book on the nearby table and was approaching. She looked a little bit older than me, but was otherwise completely unremarkable. Frizzy brown hair, jeans and a tee. She stuck out her hand to shake, and I took it.  
  
  
“I’d know that standard-issue shirt and slacks anywhere. You’re Wards Classic too?”  
  
  
Classic? Oh, the lowercase wards. They’d come before the more public ones. “Yeah. Emma Barnes, you’re… Vista?”  
  
  
She gave a short bark of a laugh. “Hardly. She’s on Console right now—nice Brute package by the way—I’m Amelia Morrison. You’d probably know me better as Panacea.” She released my hand, and gave me a polite smile. “Did they outfit you with a name yet?”  
  
  
I nodded, and tried not to frown. “Wyrm.”


	12. Chapter 12

**1.12**  
  
  
Amelia was a lucky break for me, it seemed. She was old enough to have a driver’s permit, had a good enough reputation to be allowed leave from the PRT base, and more than enough money from her medical research assistance contracts to offer to pay for a day trip to Lord’s Market without any more prodding than a wistful sigh and mention of my ongoing house arrest.  
  
  
I’d feel a bit luckier if Amelia knew what the term Safe Driving meant, but I suppose I can’t have everything.  
  
She owned a jeep, and was currently going at least 15 over the speed limit, ashes from her third cigarette flicking away into the wind of our passage. A few questions about herself and the other Wards was enough to get her to fill the ride with chatter and gossip. She lived with her adoptive mother, though she preferred to call her Aunt Moira. Vista had a _hopeless_ puppy-love crush on Gallant, but he was seeing the Brockton Brigade’s Glory Girl, and rumor has it that they broke up and made up _constantly_ , wasn’t that silly? Kid Win spent more time tinkering than he did anything else but that was expected, really, with how much Armsmaster checked in on his progress. Pigot used to be straight-up military until the Nilbog Incident, and Amelia didn’t know if she’d _always_ been such a hardass, or if she’d gotten that way after Nilbog, but some of the troopers had hinted that she’d actually _loosened up_ after Legend had blown a mile-wide crater into Ellisburg, if you can believe it. And so on, and so on.  
  
  
I smiled, and kept the conversation going with prods and questions. Amelia was a self-styled rebel, I could tell, the type that didn’t _really_ go against the rules didn’t like to just follow whatever the nearest Authority said. And an incorrigible gossip; jackpot, since as long as I was careful about what I shared with her, she’d spread rumors to paint me in a good light to the rest of the Wards. I’d have to be careful about spending too much time with her, or the PRT would think I was getting rebellious, but I’d seen enough movies in the Wards’ Common that I could easily handle some quiet, compliant down-time with the rest of my new teammates.  
  
  
We reached Lord’s Market without crashing into anybody, thankfully, and it was such a nice May day that I couldn’t help smiling. Amelia seemed to prefer window shopping to actual acquisitions, which was a shame, but I was starved enough to entertainment that I couldn’t mind. Besides, she’d mentioned icecream. Her favorite parlor was a seasonal, outdoors stall, and when we approached the counter Amelia ordered a banana split. I made a show of looking at the menu, before proclaiming that a split sounded great, I’d have one too. Amelia smiled, but there was a wry twist at the corner of her mouth. I looked away, silently cursing myself for impatience. I’d have to dial down the flattery.  
  
  
We claimed one of the little tables as we waiting for the icecream, and I took the opportunity to look around. I’d missed being out and about. I needed to catch up on what the latest fashions were, at the very least, and I scanned the crowed, picking out trends. To the left was a gaggle of teenagers, and it looked like skirt weather had officially started, though I wasn’t sure if stockings were A Thing or just a quirk. I was pleased to note no basketball shorts in sight, I’d never much liked them. What else… businessmen in suits and ties, but no jacket, owing to the weather. A number of women had pearls, I’d have to look into getting some earrings. Long hair seemed to be coming into prominence, and I cursed my shortened locks…  
  
  
My heart thudded in my chest, pulse spiking and a cold wave of sweat prickling over my scalp. I quickly scanned the crowd again. Redhead, blonde, brunette, brunette, blond, strawberry blonde. I caught Amelia giving me a sideways look.  
  
  
“Ah—sorry. Thought I saw someone I knew, is all.” I triple-checked; there wasn’t any long, dark and curled hair in sight. “My mistake. No biggie.”  
  
  
“Sure, Emma.”  
  
  
We enjoyed our icecream in relative silence. I couldn’t help looking around, once or twice. Just in case.  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
The rest of the afternoon passed peacefully. We’d ended up getting a second helping of dessert in the form of milkshakes, and were hanging out in the shade of an electronics store when the display tv caught my eye. It was playing the news, again.  
  
  
“We now take you to this week’s Street Safety Index, with Stacy. Stacy, tell us what’s going on at ground level in the Bay.”  
  
  
“Thanks, Mark. As our viewers remember, the recent death due to fatal overdose of local villain drug dealer, Skidmark, has been slowly changing the conditions and power plays of local gangs in Brockton. With the Merchants desperately trying to consolidate territory, we advise listeners to avoid the following areas…”  
  
  
The newscaster started gesturing to a map of Brockton, with different areas highlighted as dangerous or not. I tried to see if any of the highlighted streets were near my old house, but Amelia chose that moment to lean in close, a conspiratorial grin on her face.  
  
  
“It’s bullshit, you know?”  
  
  
“What is?”  
  
  
“Skidmark. PRT brought me in as a consult on the autopsy. He didn’t overdose—well, he did, but it wasn’t intentional.”  
  
  
That was enough to make me turn away from the screen. I was always up for secrets. “What do you mean?”  
  
  
She grinned, clearly relishing being in the know. “There was enough heroin in him to kill an elephant, but he’s not the one who shot up with it. There were bruises all over him, each at an injection site. _Twenty_ of them. Even Skidmark isn’t dumb enough to do that much, and the bruises were made before his heart stopped. He didn’t OD, he was stabbed with his own stash.” She was still grinning, eyes alight, and I mentally amended her description to include Mildly Creepy.  
  
  
“So he was murdered? Why’s the news say otherwise?”  
  
“He’s a parahuman, duh.” She must have seen the look on my face, because she continued.  
  
  
“Right, you’re straight off the bus… ‘kay, let me enlighten you. Nobody really says as much, not officially, but normals? They don’t care if parahumans off each other. Happens all the time. Sure, the PRT is supposed to capture and bring ‘em in for trials, but that doesn’t always happen either, and the penalties aren’t that harsh for ‘accidentally’ using a bit more force than the villain could take.” I felt that cold prickle start on my scalp again.  
  
  
“So, if parahumans fight? That’s fine. It’s why Kaiser’s still around instead of being in a Max Sec, or even the Birdcage. Kaiser and his lackeys don’t kill Normals, but the Teeth did; that’s why they got crushed and driven out of the Bay short a few psychos. Nilbog killed off his entire hometown, but if he’d just holed up on some abandoned farmland like Blasto, he’d still be around. Instead, he got Legend-ed. Hell, even Skidmark had a body count. Sometimes an independent thinks they can take on the Merchants for easy cred, and sometimes Skidmark decided to lay down the law and smear the unfortunate bastard over a city block with his power and a few dumpsters. S’how he got the name.”  
  
  
She took a draw from her milkshake. “’Course, now that you’re here, I’m betting the PRT’s gonna start taking a more active stance against the Empire. You’re a high-class Brute with a nice regen, so you’ll get thrown against Kaiser or Hookwolf sooner or later. Don’t worry! I’ll piece you back together afterwards, it’s not so bad.” She winked at me. I think all of my blood had drained to my feet by now.  
  
  
“Welcome to being a Hero, Ems.”


	13. Chapter 13

**1.13 Interlude: Miss Militia**  
  
  
“Right. Proposed budget changes settled, finally. I’ll kick it along to Finance.” Piggot closed the file folder with a snap, and tossed it onto a pile of similar folders. Miss Militia allowed a sigh, and took a sip of coffee. She might not have needed the caffeine, but the quarterly meeting had been going for five hours already. Armsmaster was on his… it couldn’t be eleventh, could it? His way-too-many-th cup of coffee. Velocity was half-slumped over the back of his chair, staring at the ceiling fan, Assault kept pretending to fall asleep on Battery’s shoulder, and Battery kept smacking him awake. Triumph and Dauntless were doing their best to stay focused, but Dauntless had opted to follow Armsmaster’s Kidney Implosion strategy and had needed to excuse himself several times. Not for the first time, Miss Militia wondered how Director Piggot managed to keep going. The woman was a bureaucratic battleaxe.  
  
  
“Lastly, let’s review updates on recent events. Armsmaster, if I recall rightly Shadow Stalker’s trial should have finished up earlier this week. How did it turn out?”  
  
  
Armsmaster looked up, his visor turning towards the Director. “A bit more serious than we expected. She’d had enough disciplinary problems to land herself in Juvenile, but the phone surrendered to us by Miss Barnes had some incriminating evidence still in its memory. Photos of mundane criminals, many pinned by crossbow bolts. Not all of them were alive when the photos were taken.” Assault winced, sitting up a bit straighter to listen.  
  
“Even with the expedited trials, it took a few months to get everything sorted and a confession secured. She’s been transferred to a Medium Security Parahuman Detainment Center.”  
  
  
“Thought she was only a Containment 2?” Assault interrupted. “I remember the meeting it was assigned.”  
  
  
Miss Militia did, as well. Every parahuman was assigned rankings for relative threat by power type, and containment difficulty. Tinkers and Brutes were generally among the easiest to contain, as a Tinker without access to tools or materials was little more than a stir-crazy Normal, and a Brute could be locked down so long as the building was made strong enough. Miss Militia herself rated as high as 8, thanks to her ability to summon infinite rocket launchers. As a Breaker, Shadow Stalker would have had a much higher rating, if not for her observed weakness to electricity. With a rating as low as 2, it was surprising that Medium Security had even been in the cards. She had to wonder how many photographs had been in that phone…  
  
  
Armsmaster nodded. “She was originally bound for Low Security, but she made a number of disparaging remarks towards the judge.”  
  
  
…or maybe the young lady had run her mouth off at the worst possible time.  
  
  
“Well, she’s out of our hair now.” Director Piggot sighed, not quite in relief. “Speaking of—what else was on that phone?”  
  
  
“Not as much as you might have hoped. Her cellular network didn’t use anything approaching long-term storage, so all we have is what hadn’t been erased on the device itself; I tried pulling up the memory, but it was database storage. Once a message was deleted, the space was recycled and allotted to new messages.”  
  
  
“Not unexpected. Did you find anything of interest?”  
  
  
“Some. I was able to establish that she was in frequent contact with Miss Barnes, and that Miss Barnes was aware of her parahuman identity, and activities.”  
  
  
Triumph broke in, saying, “Is that including Shadow Stalker’s, ah, ‘trophy hunting’?”  
  
  
“No conclusive evidence, but the pictures were the first thing Miss Barnes mentioned when she offered the phone as a plea bargain. We can’t prove it, but it seems likely.”  
  
  
“So the newest Ward, double-w, first attacks a Normie with her powers, then incriminates herself as withholding evidence from a criminal trial?” Dauntless looked a little queasy. Miss Millitia couldn’t blame him, as Wyrm’s induction into the Wards wasn’t sitting too well with her, either.  
  
  
“There’s more. The text log included several conversations between Miss Barnes and Shadow Stalker, regarding an intended ‘prank’ of sorts, for one Taylor Hebert. It seemed to consist of gathering biohazardous waste from several women’s restrooms, as well as Shadow Stalker’s assurance that her powers would allow her to get them inside Miss Hebert’s locker.”  
  
  
Miss Militia went still.  
  
  
“Well, that’s… disgusting. And a worrisome indication of character.” Now Triumph looked ill as well.  
  
  
Director Piggot had her fingers at her temples, rubbing in small circles. “Conspiracy against the same classmate she attacked? Not looking good for Miss Barnes… she’s lucky her power tests have her indicated as potentially very useful for combat. Armsmaster, see what else you can dig up on Miss Barnes and Miss Hebert. Make a secondary copy of Wyrm’s file with the information you’ve got already, so we’ll have one with proper timestamps if she goes sour.” Armsmaster nodded. “Next up—Velocity, what’s happened with the Merchants?”  
  
  
“Skidmark got ganked.”  
  
  
There was a moment of heavy, unamused silence.  
  
  
“…Forensics has declared it a probable homicide, Panacea confirmed. He was stabbed twenty times with twenty full syringes of heroin, died of overdose soon after. Investigators declared it was the work of one assailant.”  
  
  
“One person stabbed Skidmark twenty times?”  
  
  
Velocity nodded. “Location was at a Merchant gathering, celebrating newly-acquired territory near the Docks. Only one needle was recovered, so it’s presumed that the others were taken away from the scene, possibly for re-use. The surroundings were intact, with no overt signs of struggle, save for all the footprints… but forensics matched the footprints as all belonging to one individual. There was also a message left near the corpse: _nemo me impune lacessit._ It was spraypainted on the wall.”  
  
  
  
Piggot leaned back, her expression dark. Skidmark, for all that his intelligence was widely disparaged, had a ratlike ability to avoid capture. With Squealer and the other few Merchant capes for backup, he was surprisingly difficult to corner, much less deal injury to.  
  
  
  
“Holy _shit_! A revenge killing? Who’d he piss off?”  
  
  
  
Heads around the table turned to Assault. Armsmaster spoke first, “What makes you say it was revenge-motivated?”  
  
  
  
“Uh… the message? ‘No one harms me with impunity.’”  
  
  
  
Silence.  
  
  
  
“It’s Latin.”  
  
  
  
More silence.  
  
  
  
“Montressor’s family motto… Cask of Amontillado… Poe. Anyone?”  
  
  
  
Battery was giving Assault a distinctly sideways glance. “And you would know that… why?”  
  
  
  
“What! I _read_!”  
  
  
  
“Sure, but… most of what you read starts with the words, ‘ _Dear Playboy, I never imagined it could happen to me_.’”  
  
  
  
“Oho? Been looking through my magazines? Did you wanna start a _book club_ , Puppy?” There was a sharp SMACK and a following _Ow!_  
  
  
Piggot shook her head. “Wonderful. Armsmaster, what are the odds on this not being a new parahuman out to cause trouble?”  
  
  
  
“Diddly to squat, ma’am.”  
  
  
  
“As I thought. Alright: homicide, suspected parahuman involvement. Tentative mover and stranger, designation ‘Montressor’. Velocity, keep up with the law enforcement and look for related incidents. Meeting adjourned.”  
  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
Miss Militia closed the door to her quarters in the PRT base, turning the lock with a soft _click_. She removed her bandanna and tossed it over the back of her desk chair, then settled down on her small couch. Her weapon flicked between forms, restless, mirroring her thoughts.  
  
  
  
The situation with Shadow Stalker and the newest ward was leaving a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach. Wyrm was a powder keg, for all that she was suppressed by her confinement, and Hannah did not agree with the Director’s choice of eventual targets for the girl. Being made into a shock trooper would not alleviate the pressure; it would not help her, and it would not erase what had already been done.  
  
  
  
Hannah’s memory was still clear as crystal. The acrid scent of Wyrm’s acid permeating the corridors of Winslow High, the depth of the rents in the ground and rows of lockers. And the look on Taylor Hebert’s face, as she slipped out of sight of the crowd of milling students and started her escape.  
  
  
  
_Wait! Stop, there! This is an emergency, you cannot leave!_  
  
  
_I have to. I’ll be hunted next._  
  
  
_What?_  
  
  
Taylor had paused, then, every muscle tensed to run, but with none of the panic Hannah would have expected. Instead, she’d been almost cold. Almost angry, almost resigned. It was not a face that a teenager should have made.  
  
  
  
_Emma won’t stop. She never does. And nobody cares to stop her._  
  
  
_The PRT is here, we—_  
  
  
_The PRT keeps Shadow Stalker. They’ll probably want to keep Emma, too. The PRT only wants power, they don’t care about justice. Do you think you’re different?_  
  
  
_What—yes!_  
  
  
It had been a reflexive answer. Hannah had quickly fallen in love with her new country, and took its principles to heart. Looking back, she wondered if she would have answered so honestly if she hadn’t already been rattled by the mention of Shadow Stalker. Hannah hadn’t known who Taylor Hebert was at the time, but even so, the implications of her casual denouncement had been dark. Knowing what she did now?  
  
  
  
_We’ll see._  
  
  
  
Hannah reached for her wallet, secured in an inner breast pocket of her costume’s jacket, and withdrew from it a folded piece of paper. She’d found it half-tucked under the gas cap of her motorcycle, when she’d returned from purchasing a quick snack while on patrol the other night.  
  
  
  
_If you want to be different, contact me._  
  
_[Seekerofjustice001@PHO.para.net](mailto:Seekerofjustice001@PHO.para.net)_  
  
_\--T_  
  
  
Knowing what she did now… could she live with herself if she didn’t?


	14. Chapter 14

**2.1**  
  
  
"Assassinator?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Shiv-tastic?"  
  
"No."  
  
Okay, I got it-- Ninja-Lord of Hyperdeathsplosion!"  
  
" _Hell_ no."  
  
Aisha scoffed and tossed a handful of popcorn at her friend, who was sitting on her scavenged couch and reading a newspaper, like a boring adult. Taylor, for her part, just calmly started picking popcorn out of her hair and eating it.  
  
"Protectorate will come up with something. I'm not really all that worked up about it."  
  
"C'mooooon! You need a badass name, one that people'll recognize and go _oh shit it's the Lord of Hyperdeath_."  
  
"I don't think so. I don't think it will matter what my name is. By the time people start to recognize it, they'll know what it really means: me."  
  
Aisha grinned. That right there was why Taylor was just the coolest. She was _stone cold_. Aisha's bro talked about rep sometimes, but she was pretty sure that Taylor knew more about rep than Brian did. Brian had to try to be intimidating, he had to paint his helmet like a skull and practice letting his darkness smoke over his shoulders while he stared at a mirror when he thought Aisha wasn't watching. But Taylor? Taylor didn't have to try at all. To her, being spooky came naturally.  
  
Like, seriously: her super secret lair was the abandoned hospital on the edge of the docks. It'd been used by the Teeth years back, so it was pretty wrecked-looking and there were a lot of weird stains in the hallways, and abandoned gurneys, and everything. You can't get more horror movie than that, you just _can't_. And Taylor just walked in and went 'Yeah this place looks good' and started moving in her shit. She didn't give a single fuck if it was haunted. _She_ was haunting it now, any ghosts left behind were just shit outta luck.  
  
Taylor folded up her newspaper and glanced at the cheap clock hung on the far wall. "Getting dark. Want to go patrol with me?"  
  
"Hell yeah!"  
  
"'Kay. Have fun, but stay out of sight, you know the drill."  
  
"Got it," Aisha said, but she'd already turned on her power and Taylor's eyes got that unfocused look for a second, like anyone who she was talking to when she vanished. Taylor glanced at the cheap clock on the wall, nodded to herself, then started putting on the rest of her costume. It all looked pretty simple, just black everything, but Aisha knew Taylor had traded some favors in exchange for stuff like some kevlar plates that she'd sewn in. Then she checked her cell phone, strapped on her knife, and headed out. Aisha kept close behind, putting on her own hockey mask and driving gloves. Nobody would see her anyway, so it didn't have to be fancy.   
  
Taylor went on a winding route to get into the Docks proper, popping out clones and having them follow along on nearby rooftops and in neighboring streets and alleys for a few seconds at a time, keeping a constant lookout in every direction at once. Less than an hour, and Taylor had noticed something, because she'd started to walk quicker and in a straighter line. Merchants, probably. The idiots had tried to take the Docks, had started hassling the Dockworkers like they were gonna get protection money, but the Docks were _Taylor's_ even if they didn't know it yet. They were gonna know, Aisha was sure, if they didn't already. Taylor had gone right for Skidmark and just erased him, in the next room from his own party even, and that had been enough for most of the Merchants to get the hell out of Dodge.  
  
As for the ones that were left, well. Aisha didn't have much sympathy for them, not after what they'd done. What they'd tried to do, before Taylor waltzed in and corrected them with _extreme prejudice_.   
  
Aisha followed Taylor as she closed in on what should have been an abandoned building. There were lights and voices inside, indistinct under the hum of the generator parked outside. Aisha sidled up to the machine and pushed down her power, giving a thumb's up when Taylor's head whipped around to look at her, and if Aisha hadn't known it was her power at work she'd have thought it creepy how Taylor always knew when someone was watching her. Anyone that wasn't Aisha with her power up, anyway. She saw Taylor nod, and position herself near a boarded-up window and start to get a head count of who was inside. Aisha let her power rise up again, and Taylor paused. She looked towards the generator, but must have assumed she'd decided to ignore it since she was already in position to move in.  
  
Aisha counted to three, then flipped the generator to Off.  
  
The light cut out, and startled voices sounded from within the building, but Taylor was already inside. So was Taylor, and Taylor, and Taylor, and Taylor. Aisha heard a yell cut off into a sharp crack, and the sound of flesh hitting flesh, and then silence. She pushed down her power, restarted the generator, and went to the door Taylor was now holding open for her. Six Merchants were down, bruises already starting on temples and around necks. Around them were a few broken beakers, some lengths of plastic tubing, and several boxes of matches.  
  
"Meth lab. No wonder they didn't clear out... hey, grab their stuff, they're not getting it back. I'm gonna leave them a message."  
  
"Awesome."  
  
Aisha busied herself with making piles of matches into swears and then igniting them, while Taylor went about zip-tying the gang members together in the middle of the floor. When she had them all assembled, she took out her knife and started carving. Nothing deep, it'd scab over in a minute or two, but all six of the Merchants were gonna wake up with a number on their thighs, one to six. That was how Taylor understood rep better than Brian: it wasn't about what she did, but what she _could have done_. Stone cold, seriously.  
  
Aisha took a minute to toss all the beakers into an open crate, breaking them to pieces, and watched Taylor put away the knife and replace it with a permanent marker. She found the cleanest section of wall, thought for a bit, then started writing.  
  
"I kinda like this. Us, I mean. We work together pretty well." She said, the marker squeaking against the drywall. Aisha read the words aloud, and grinned.   
  
"More from your book?"  
  
"Mhm."  
  
"Haaa, you liar. You know if you keep this up you'll get a themed name."  
  
"I said I wasn't worked up about it... but if they want to call me something I approve of, then that's simply convenient." She capped the marker, slipped it back into her pocket.   
  
"C'mon, let's go find some more dudes."  
  
  
  
_'I intend to put up with nothing I can put down.'_


	15. Chapter 15

**2.2**  
  
  
"Boss, I'm sorry, but I just can't swing this. I've tried."  
  
"Not hard enough, clearly." Coil said as he dropped his other timeline. He'd needed to make sure that Tattletale wasn't simply fishing for information with her refusal, but this time at least she was sincere. Or sincere enough. The Undersiders were being reluctant to pull off such a public heist, even with his assurance that the Protectorate would be out of reach at the time. He had a few other possible distractions be could arrange, but this one seemed like the most reliable. He just needed to find a way to convince the Undersiders to do it.  
  
"Tattletale. If I provided you with more... direct assistance, would that make this a more agreeable situation?"  
  
There was silence for a few moments as Tattletale processed that information, and its implications. "You mean muscle."  
  
"Correct."  
  
"The group won't want to split money any further, Coil."  
  
"That will not be an issue. This one doesn't want money."  
  
Another moment of silence. Coil smiled to himself. The implications were clear as day: he had additional parahumans, and they could not be easily bought or swayed if Tattletale started getting ideas.  
  
"I'll ask the group."  
  
"I'll text you the information for meeting them." Click. Satisfying. He did rather enjoy playing games with Tattletale, once in a while. Really, every game was more enjoyable when he held all the best cards. Speaking of... Coil thumbed his phone's contacts list, then sent off a quick text. If playing with Tattletale was amusing, then dealing with the privately-dubbed Montressor was refreshing. When he'd first had agents approach the girl, after she'd robbed one of his front stores in the dead of night, she'd skipped the tedious opening steps of intimidation and bribery and gone straight to haggling. As he'd told Tattletale, this parahuman wasn't interested in money beyond her simple needs. She didn't want luxury, didn't need fame or power handed to her. She couldn't even be swayed by a need for safety. No, Ms. Hebert was a rare and dangerous variant of parahuman:  
  
A sufficiently motivated idealist.  
  
She refused to be employed in a traditional manner, because employment meant obligation. She was strictly mercenary, and for the first few months they'd tested each other's limits of what was acceptable. He hired her to steal documents from increasingly secure locations, she demanded Kevlar plates and a trench spike and hours with his own mercenaries for training. Of course, he'd run some extra tests with the help of his power, to find what else she could want, or what she could do, or how she could break. He'd found that she was damnably hard to hold onto, if she didn't want to be somewhere. That alone rendered the majority of his split timelines inconclusive, but it did teach him the best ways to bargain.  
  
His phone rang. Right on time.  
  
"Coil."  
  
"Montressor."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Oh-- I'm sorry, I thought you were already aware. The PRT officially admitted to your existence, thanks to your tendency to leave a calling-card on the walls." First, try to remind her that she's not omniscient, that there is information she hasn't or can't acquire by herself. But don't be condescending, or she'll grow unruly.  
  
"I see."  
  
"I have a job for you. Two, in fact, to choose between." She wants autonomy.  
  
"Go on."  
  
"I want you to assist the Undersiders in robbing Brockton Central Bank tomorrow afternoon. If that isn't agreeable to you, there's another target I'd like you to rob-- at the same time as the bank."  
  
"A bank? In broad daylight?" She was silent for a moment. "You don't want anything stolen, you just want a ruckus."  
  
"Indeed." She hates being underneath anyone. Pretend that she's more in on your plans than she is, closer to an equal.  
  
"Broad daylight..." She sighed.  
  
"You're already acknowledged by the PRT. There's not much sense in remaining under the radar completely."  
  
"Even so... I'll want something big for this."  
  
"I am prepared for that." Never offer her anything, she'll refuse on principle. Always let her decide what she wants.  
  
"Good. I want a mole."  
  
"...pardon?" Oh, now what is this?  
  
"In the PRT. I know you have them, you're always flaunting that you have inside information. We do this, it means I'm in the open for good. Pandora's box and all. So I'll have to step up my game, and you're going to have to match it."  
  
"Information is my specialty, and I appreciate that this is a big step. What exactly are you looking for?"  
  
"Evidence of corruption. Legally-permissible evidence." _Oh ho._  
  
"I think we can come to an arrangement."  
  
* * *  
  
"...so that's it? We're agreed?"  
  
"Sounds good." Regent drained the last of his soda can. "Not much work for me. Just the way I like it. Gonna go get another soda, you want one? Nobody? 'Kay."  
  
Spitfire ran a hand through her hair, but nodded. "I don't really like this, but I'm with you. When's this 'backup' meeting us, anyway? We've only got a few hours tomorrow morning to prepare."  
  
"He just said they'd be here at least an hour before we left."  
  
"Well does that mean before we leave to go to the bank, or before we leave the meetup to start the bank, or before we leave the bank after we've robbed it?"  
  
"Hey, who took all my soda?" Regent's voice called from the kitchen. "And Brian you left the TV on, it's a plasma, I'm not replacing it if it burns."  
  
"What? I didn't. I turned it off before we... left." Grue paused, and looked at Tattletale. She turned her head towards the loft's den, on the other side of the hideout. The faint voice of the news announcer could be heard.  
  
"You're joking." Spitfire's eyes widened. As one, the group walked through the kitchen and into the den, where Regent was already glowering at a black-clad figure sitting on the couch--on _his side_ , damnit!-- with a half-eaten bowl of popcorn and three soda cans on the coffee table. Montressor turned her head to look over the couch at the Undersiders.  
  
"You're late."


	16. Chapter 16

**2.3**  


 

"Would the following students please come to the third floor meeting hall: Angelique Dayson, Emma Jameson, Stephanie Krill, Tony Esquelto, Carlos..."

 

I looked up at the sound of my new name being called over the intercom. Most of the other students did too. So many names being called up at once was a good indicator of Wards movement. I gave a put-upon sigh, and gathered up my books and papers from my desk. Arcadia was nothing like Winslow, and I wasn't convinced it was for the better. Classes were almost as crowded as at my old school, but the teachers employed assistants to keep a second pair of eyes out for any wrongdoing or even innocent mischief. The lack of open gang presence made the power cliques harder to identify, and even if they'd been labeled with neon signs I'm not sure I would have been able to manage them like I had last year. My new PRT-handled persona just wasn't as gifted at it as I could be. Oh, sure, they couldn't mandate my personality or anything, but they had ways of enforcing changes to make sure I stayed within the lines they drew for me. My dyed hair was as mousy and unimaginative as my new fake surname. My free time was increasingly being taken over by actual studying, as the PRT had informed me that I needed to maintain a 3.0 grade average at minimum, and Arcadia's standards were considerably higher than Winslow's. I couldn't even make up for these shortcomings with fashion, as the PRT's allowance isn't suited for the high-end parlors on the Boardwalk.

I joined the trickle of students exiting classrooms and winding their ways upstairs, and started to wonder what would require all of the Wards being pulled out at once. I could feel my power stir in the hollow space between my ribs and my gut, provoking a confused mix of nausea and hunger. My power liked to be used a lot more than I liked to use it. Soon enough, my thoughts were interrupted by arriving at the third-floor meeting hall, where students were separated further and then ushered into little individual study cubicles. As expected, my duffel bag with my costume was already inside, so I grabbed it and waited for the little green light to signal that it was time to leave. It came on almost immediately: whatever was going on, it was apparently urgent.  
  
Carlos--Aegis now--met me as soon as I'd finished changing into my costume, and he made a _hurry up_ gesture, quickly leading me to the waiting transport outside. We all filed in to the PRT van, and I couldn't help but comment, "What, all of us? At once? And where's the backup squad?"  
  
"There isn't one." Browbeat looked over my way, and I struggled to meet his eyes. It was unsettling, the way his chest just... expanded, as he added musculature, and his skin grew gnarled with keloid scars. "Undersiders are robbing the Bay Central Bank."  
  
"Okay, so?"  
  
"So, it's the _Undersiders_. They've got some of the best battlefield control in the city. Grue's darkness shuts down most tech and is completely blinding, Regent puppets anyone who gets too close, and Spitfire ups the ante by making danger zones."  
  
"They're pretty well-tuned to shut down any attempts to corner them, especially by Normal units." Aegis explained. I was grateful to have someone else to look at. "And the more people we bring to the field, the faster they'll escalate. It's happened before. Good news though, they've got no heavy hitters, and since you're here we've got a better shot at dismantling them. Regent's power, from what we've gathered, only works best on humans. You and Browbeat should be resistant to it: you moreso than he."  
  
"Okay, but what about the, uh, 'danger zones'?"  
  
"Spitfire-- the name's pretty literal. She mostly uses it to block off areas or routes, keep people from getting in close. Your scales are pretty fireproof though, don't worry." Oh you are shitting me. They wanted me to walk through fire?  
  
"So! Game plan. Vista, tie up the back of the bank, cut off their escape route. Kid Win has air support and a foam grenade launcher, if they try to break away. Clockblocker, you're Vista's bodyguard. Browbeat, Wyrm, and I are the bruisers, Browbeat has Spitfire and I'm on Grue. Wyrm, that leaves you for Regent, get your changer form ready as quick as you can." The van turned a corner, quickly enough we all slid a bit to the left in our seats. "Oh-- don't forget about Tattletale. Thinker, so her best weapon is aggressive diplomacy, but any smart Thinker is armed."  
  
Great. Well, an ambiguous Master was better than Spitfire, I guessed. I tried to focus on my power, but it was barely a trickle. With an enemy in front of me, I'd have an easier time holding onto the anger and assurance I'd come to associate with it. And I was about to get it, because quickly enough the van slowed to a short stop, just across the street from Brockton Bay Central Bank. We filed out of the van as quickly as we could, and hurried over closer to the large, domed building. I felt adrenaline start to flicker to life in my gut, and I took a moment to kick off my shoes. I wasn't going to fit them, pretty soon.  
  
We formed up in a rough half-circle, about ten yards from the bank's double doors. The light wasn't great for it, but I could see vague figures through the windows, most of them just barely clearing the sills. Hostages? It must have been. I guessed that was why the PRT didn't want to provoke the Undersiders too quickly. Spitfire around a bunch of tied-up people sounded like a bad combination. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Vista nod her head, just a bit. Aegis took it as his cue to start speaking, and his raised his voice to a shout.  
  
"Undersiders! This is the PRT. Release the hostages and come out with your hands on your heads!" Seriously? Did he expect that to work? Probably not, it sounded pretty rehearsed. To my surprise, though, it... kind of did. The first part, anyway. The bank's doors opened, and people emerged from the bank, fearful and pale. They walked at first, but when twin coils of darkness roiled like smoke out to the sides, they started to run. The black smoke rose like a curtain, cutting off the screams of anyone still inside. Aegis tensed, not wanting to fly in and risk ramming a civilian. Browbeat just cracked his knuckles. I took a few deep breaths, and focused on wanting to fight.  
  
A black shape appeared at Aegis's back, fist already in motion to slam a dagger into his spine. Aegis yelped and collapsed, his legs folding like an unstrung puppet's. The cape vanished before he hit the ground.  
  
Browbeat startled, jerking away in surprise, but he collected himself and started a bull rush into the roiling smoke, needing to get to Spitfire before she could block off the bank's entrance with a napalm bonfire. I have no idea if he made it. Grue's darkness ate sound as easily as light, Browbeat could have been anywhere inside it. So could Grue. Anxiety clenched my lungs, made my fingers and toes curl and thicken. My skin started to crosshatch, and just in time, as Spitfire's namesake splattered across the pavement to my right, igniting immediately. More followed, tracing a line behind me and heading towards Vista and Clockblocker. I saw them move out of the way, and realized-- the Undersiders weren't blocking the Wards out, they were blocking us _in_. Trying to keep us close to Grue's darkness, where we'd be helpless.  
  
I spotted a cape in something like a gas mask, just outside of the darkness, and anger heaved in my stomach, bubbled up thickly under my tongue. I tensed, toenails digging into the pavement, ready to spring forward and wrench that cape away from her safety. _Nobody_ trapped me, I'd get stronger and break anyone who tried!  
  
To my left, Aegis was getting to his feet, his power already finding a work-around for having a knife between his vertebrae. The black shape appeared again, this time long enough to see, and there were _two_ of them now. The assassin pair brought down their knives again, this time into Aegis's shoulder blades, disabling his arms with a harsh _crack_. The capes vanished again, leaving Aegis crippled and coated in dust. I spared a moment to wonder if I should go help him, or follow Browbeat into the fray. The hesitation cost me-- or maybe it saved my life. The black cape appeared again.  
  
And this time they were right on top of me.  
  
A heavy weight was suddenly on my back, making me stumble and lean forward under it-- under the cape. I moved my hand to claw them away, but--  
  
A bare finger traced along my throat. I froze.  
  
I barely noticed when the cape vanished again, crumbling into dust around my shoulders. Terror sparked along my power like lightning, driving me to all fours as my torso elongated with a muffled snap-snap-snap of my ribs reshaping themselves. They could have had me. They could have slit my throat with barely a thought, and could I even heal that quickly? No, no, I needed to focus, I needed to bust down the doors and find Regent and punch his stupid face, and then I could throw Spitfire against a wall, and by then my scales would be so thick the vanishing cape couldn't touch me. My talons tore at the pavement as I lunged forward, clearing meters in seconds. I'd missed my chance at Spitfire, but that was fine, I'd get her later. I'd get all of them.  
  
The vanishing cape appeared in front of me, just like that, and I snarled at them. Idiot, to get so close to me. I swiped out my claws and they were well within my reach, and they exploded into dust on my nails. A weight appeared on my back again, near my legs, and this time there were no threats. Pain spiked at my hip as a knife sawed into the tendon between my thigh and my groin. I stumbled, then screamed as the back of my knee parted on steel. It was already healing, the fear and anger only fueling my power, but-- how was I supposed to fight _this_? They were everywhere, and even when I hit them, they-- it wasn't fair!  
  
"Shhhh..." The cape said, and I felt cold metal at the back of my neck. They didn't cut; the knife slid up, slowly, against the back of my head. Just close enough to ruffle and split my hair. Then they were gone.  
  
Acid burbled in my throat, but I didn't get up.  
  
The Undersiders got away.


	17. Chapter 17

**2.4**  
  
Five pairs of feet tromped up the stairs to the Undersider's loft, moseyed into the kitchen, and proceeded to mill about in awkward tension. Predictably, Regent was the first to speak, his tone flippant as he rummaged in the fridge. "So, that went pretty well."  
  
"Mhm. Very smoothly."  
  
"Yeah, it did, but-- Jesus." Spitfire rubbed her hands over her arms, then looked between Grue and Montresor. "I think holding Vista at knifepoint was a bit much. Overkill, anyone?"  
  
"That _was_ the plan." Montresor said, and though her tone was even Tattletale's gaze fixed on her and didn't leave. "Separate Vista from whoever's guarding her, then force her to take down her space-bending. Asking politely wasn't going to cut it."  
  
"Ha, cut it. Nice." Regent held a hand up high. Montresor just stared until he gave up, grumbling.   
  
"I know Vista's around-- what, twelve?-- but she's still a Ward. Couldn't be helped, Spitfire." Grue cut in, a few wisps of shadow still curling off his shoulders. "This whole thing went smoother than I'd hoped for, by far. Good work, team, and thanks to Montresor for the assist." At this he turned, and gave the black-clad Montresor an appraising look. "You're working for the same Boss, aren't you? Have you considered joining a tea--"  
  
"No."  
  
"That's quick. Something under your skin, Miss Poe?" Tattletale's grin started to spread across her face. Grue gave her a warning glance, but she ignored it; to the Thinker, there was blood in the water. "You don't want to work with other people, do you? Antisocial, or... no. Guilt maybe, don't want to drag others down with you? Now why would that be?"  
  
"Tattletale, stop."  
  
"No need, Grue. She likes to dig, I know how to deal with that." Montresor turned to face Tattletale directly. "It's easy: tell the truth. No, I don't want to join a team, or the Undersiders. No, I'm not very comfortable with most other people. No, I'm not very comfortable with the idea of sharing my dirty work. No, I can't be persuaded to join the Undersiders-- not because of my reservations, but because the Undersiders do not have anything I want." Tattletale looked put-out. Before she could start again, Spitfire heaved a sigh and threw up her hands.   
  
"God, this again. You got her started, knife-happy chick, you have fun with it. Regent, wait up."  
  
"Ah..." Grue watched Spitfire retreat to the den, where Regent was already turning up the volume on the TV. "Well, I'm sorry you feel that way, Montresor. We enjoyed working with you."  
  
"No hard feelings. I'm not opposed to working together sometimes, but I'm not signing on. I'll leave my number here for you."  
  
"Fair enough." Grue extended his hand for a shake, and Montresor took it. He left, leaving her and Tattletale alone, and the two girls stood in silence for a few moments. Tattletale spoke first, and she kept her voice low to be covered by the television in the next room.   
  
"You're in this for personal reasons. A grudge."  
  
"Mhm. I find new grudges all the time, in fact. Keeps me busy. On a related note, Tattletale-- how do you like working for your Boss?"  
  
"I--" The Thinker paused, momentarily thrown. "You've worked with him longer than I have. Shouldn't you have an idea?"  
  
"I didn't ask for how he treats employees and contractors, I asked about you. He's always been fair with me, but then again, I told him early on that if he ever crosses a few certain lines that I would immediately move to a Scorched-Earth policy and not look back."  
  
"That's crazy. You're practically daring him to, are you blind?"  
  
"Heh-- tunnel-vision, maybe. And he hasn't, yet. But that's a concern for later. For now... the Undersiders don't have anything I want, but you might. I hear you're good with finding information?"  
  
"If you're asking me to dig up dirt on that Ward you're so taken with, forget it. You've been seen with us, and killing a Ward will bring down all sorts of hammers."  
  
"Kill her? You thought I-- ha!" Montresor barked a laugh, and above her cloth mask the corners of her eyes crinkled in a smile. "To paraphrase, for brevity: when one takes revenge, one wants to be avenged at length. No, I don't need any information on the Wards specifically."  
  
"Well that's not ominous."  
  
"It's going to be." Montresor's mirth was gone, as though it had never been there. "I want to trade. Find some things for me to do, just don't cross too many lines. In return: names. And addresses."  
  
Tattletale's eyes nearly bugged out, and she hissed, "You're-- that's-- you are _insane_."  
  
"I knew you'd understand. And no-- not crazy. Just... driven." She winked. "My number's on your desk already. Ta." With that, Montresor collapsed into a fine sprinkling of dust, leaving Tattletale alone. She felt her hands clench into fists, and forcibly relaxed them.   
  
Montresor didn't know what she was doing. Oh, she surely had a little bit of an idea, but as she'd said-- tunnel-vision. _Killed Skidmark. Will not stop with Skidmark. Will not stop with Merchants_ , her power murmured. _No plans for afterwards in regards to power vacuums._ Or-- no. _Wants to see how power structures form. Wants to revise power structures in Brockton Bay. Will not stop with Merchants. Will not stop with villains._ Tattletale wandered back to her room, paused with her hand still on the knob. _Knows Coil is a villain._  
  
It was a faint hope, and an unsteady one. Montresor had too strong a drive and little care for consequences-- or rather, she'd decided that the consequences were something she could live with, and that was almost worse because it meant she wouldn't be surprised into remorse when everything when to hell. But it was something, and Montresor being difficult to predict or dissuade would only be in Tattletale's favor if she could be turned against Coil. Tattletale opened up her room, saw the folded note on her desk, right where Montresor had said it would be-- and the dark-skinned teenager, lounging on her bed with her thumbs moving across her phone. Aisha looked up and grinned.   
  
"Bosslady's pretty cool, right?"  
  
Tattletale's power about started screaming. So did she.  
  
"WHAT THE FU--"


	18. Chapter 18

**2.5**  
  
  
  
The battered VW wasn't Miss Militia's preferred ride, but even the undeniable charm of her Green Beetle turned fewer heads than her motorcycle. It was bad enough she was doing this in costume, and wasn't that a quandary? She'd wrestled with herself over if and when and how to do this, and despite the sensibilities of the alternatives (showing up as a civilian PRT agent, or not showing up at all) her damn foolish choice still felt the most honest. She sighed behind her bandana, double-checked the clock--3 in the afternoon, on the dot--and turned the VW into the driveway of a small, run-down little house in a small, run-down little working neighborhood.  
  
Small block letters on the mailbox read, "Hebert."  
  
Danny Hebert opened the door for her before she could knock, and welcomed her inside with little fanfare.  
  
"Come in, please. Have a seat. Uh, sorry about the newspaper everywhere, let me just-- there." He swept the loose pages off of the small kitchen table, and deposited them in a stack on top of a similar stack sitting precariously on one of the table's three chairs. There had to be the whole week's worth of news sitting there. Miss Militia guessed that Danny Hebert didn't take a lot of time to tidy, even when he had an appointment. She'd called ahead two days ago-- maybe the mess was deliberate? A display of casual conduct, or continuing grief, or...  
  
She pushed the line of thought away. Danny Hebert ("I know I'm getting up in years, but Mister Hebert was my father. Call me Danny, please.") didn't seem the type for duplicity.  
  
"I just put on coffee, but I've got tea, milk, or juice if you prefer. Oh, and water."  
  
"Coffee is good, thank you."  
  
"Mkay." He busied himself with collecting a pair of mugs, though the coffee maker was still hissing and dripping as it brewed. He gestured for Miss Militia to sit, and did the same, and said, "So-- Miss Militia. I don't think this is a casual call."  
  
"No, Mr-- Danny. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about your daughter."  
  
"I already answered what I could."  
  
"Yes, of course. I just wanted to... go over a few things." Well, this was going swimmingly. Why had she decided this was a good idea, again? Right, right-- because she couldn't let things lie. "Mr. Hebert, have you--"  
  
"I haven't seen Taylor since I kissed her goodbye that morning, before she went to school." Miss Militia managed not to wince. "I did tell this to the PRT already... and I told them about the letter I found, later, when I finally got home. Would you like to read it?"  
  
"That won't be necessary, Mr. Hebert." She'd already seen it. It had been brief, little more than a declaration of her intent to leave before Emma Barnes could track her down, and an assurance that she'd come home 'someday.' The original copy had vanished into a case file somewhere in the PRT, and if the steel in Danny Hebert's voice was any indication, the man had a pretty good idea of what had happened to it. "Has she contacted you since then?"  
  
"If she had, wouldn't I tell the PRT about it?"  
  
Well.  
  
The evasion was obvious, and with a sinking feeling Miss Militia realized that she'd delayed the visit-- hell, the whole issue-- too long. She was a step or two behind. It was not a welcome feeling. She took a sip of the offered coffee and turned her options around and about in her head, considering.  
  
"It would be for the best, don't you think? The PRT and the police both want to help find your daughter, Mr. Hebert."  
  
"Oh, I'm sure. A missing person's case in Brockton Bay is always given the highest priority, especially teenagers." This was a man well-practiced in keeping a straight face. "Particularly teenagers with noted histories of being troubled."  
  
Miss Militia sipped at her coffee again, not wanting to take the bait. Being led like this put a sour taste in her stomach. But what other ways could she go about this? There was no chance that Taylor Hebert hadn't told her father about her experience with Miss. Barnes'... attentions, his hard smile dispelled any illusions of goodwill when it came to the PRT. Subtlety was failing her, here. Well, that had never been her favorite tactic, anyway.  
  
"Mr Hebert, are you aware of your daughter's status as a parahuman?" Not technically a lie; that sentence could be asking if Taylor was a parahuman or not. Miss Militia didn't have solid evidence, but when enough coincidences pile up, they start to form a picture.  
  
"Why would you ask me?"  
  
"Answer the question, Mr. Hebert."  
  
"I don't think I need to. As I told you, I don't know where my daughter is, or what she's doing-- though if you think she's a parahuman, that would certainly explain why you're so eager to find her, when the police wrote her off as a runaway weeks ago." Mr. Hebert set his mug onto the able with a sharp _click_ , surprisingly loud in the small kitchen. "And even then, there's no clear reason why the PRT would be so insistent about it, about asking me, _going through her things_ , unless she's a villain, or unless she knows something you'd rather she not."  
  
On her hip, Miss Militia's power flickered, unfolding into a larger knife than what she'd come into this house with. The picture was growing ugly. Why would Mr. Hebert imply that Taylor was running from the PRT, rather than from Mss Barnes, unless he had reason--unless she'd given him a reason-- to consider the PRT as an enemy?  
  
And why would Taylor Hebert consider the PRT an enemy, unless she had a reason to fear or hate one of its members?  
  
Fragments of text messages in a cell phone. Uneasy glances and cut-short sentences from students and staff. An unreported break-in. A Ward's locker, filled with congealed blood and dust-- _several weeks_ before Wyrm's trigger. Miss Militia's fingers tightened on her coffee mug.  
  
Montresor wasn't just one step ahead. She was _several_.  
  
"Mr. Hebert... if your daughter is a parahuman, then--"  
  
"Then nothing," he interrupted. "I'm sure you're well aware, it's illegal to press charges or even detain the non-parahuman members of a parahuman's family and acquaintances for the deeds of the parahuman."  
  
"Unless they are found to be in collusion with the parahuman villain, Mr. Hebert."  
  
"You're welcome to file for a warrant, Miss Militia." Danny Hebert smiled, all steel and teeth. "I'm a hardworking man, always at work in the company of others. I keep all my receipts. The dockworkers' shipping logs and finances are triple-checked for irregularities. If you can find due cause to look, then be my guest."  
  
There wasn't much call for small talk, after that.  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
**Welcome to the Parahumans Online Message Boards**  
You are currently logged in,  GunsNGlory911  
You are viewing:  
• Threads you have replied to  
• AND Threads that have new replies  
• OR private message conversations with new replies  
• Thread OP is displayed  
• Ten posts per page  
• Last ten messages in private message history  
• Threads and private messages are ordered by user custom preference.  
_  
You have entered a Private Chatroom with SeekerofJustice001_  
**  
SeekerofJustice001** Not your official account, I take it?  
  
**GunsNGlory911** No.  
  
**SeekerofJustice001** Either way, I'm surprised. I didn't think you'd contact me this late in the game. By now, I figured you'd opted not to play at all.  
  
**GunsNGlory911** If you're who I think you are, then it's sick to call this a game.  
  
**SeekerofJustice001** Fair enough-- I apologize. For the word choice, anyway.  
  
**GunsNGlory911** You're Montresor, aren't you?  
**  
SeekerofJustice001** Correct. No need o say my real name, I'm sure you know who am I by now.  
  
**SeekerofJustice001** *to say  
  
**GunsNGlory911** Montresor, you need to stop this, what you're doing. The world needs heroes, not villains. And your father needs his little girl.  
  
**SeekerofJustice001** That's WHY I'm doing this. 'I am actuated by an ambition, which I believe to be an honorable one-- the ambition of serving the great cause of truth.' The world needs heroes, and this city isn't getting what it needs. That's why I asked you to contact me.  
  
**GunsNGlory911** I will not work with criminals. If you want my help, you'll have to turn yourself in.  
  
**SeekerofJustice001** I don't want you to work with me, that would be illegal. I'm not deluded, I know what I am.  
  
**GunsNGlory911** Then why contact me?  
  
**SeekerofJustice001** Because you said you were different.  
  
**SeekerofJustice001** Because I want you to be a hero, like we need. Like this city needs.  
  
**SeekerofJustice001** I won't ask anything of you. I won't tell you not to try and capture me-- that's your job. I encourage it, even.  
  
**GunsNGlory911** What?  
**  
SeekerofJustice001** And if you do, after I'm finished, I'll even come quietly.  
  
**GunsNGlory911** Why not just come in now? If you want to help Brockton Bay, do it as a hero. Two wrongs or more won't make a right, Montresor.  
  
**SeekerofJustice001** No. But they will make changes.  
**  
SeekerofJustice001** Prove that you're a hero. A real one, not a punch-clock hero for the PRT. Do what's right, not what you're told to.  
  
**GunsNGlory911** I don't think you have any ground to tell me what's right or wrong.  
  
**SeekerofJustice001** And the PRT does? 'The result of law violate is imperfection, wrong, positive pain.'  
  
**SeekerofJustice001** The PRT is not above the law, Miss. Militia. Neither are you.  
  
**GunsNGlory911** This coming from someone who robbed a bank? Who has murdered?  
**  
SeekerofJustice001** I'm not above the law, either. That's why it's your job to bring me to justice.  
  
**SeekerofJustice001** Just don't forget to uphold justice in the meantime.  
  
  
_User_ SeekerofJustice001 has left.


	19. Chapter 19

**2.6**

 

I left the affectionately nicknamed 'Danger Room' (it was probably a reference, but I didn't much care) a sore, bloody mess. I hated power testing and combat drills, but the PRT didn't really care about where I thought Armsmaster could shove his algorithms. They just took away more of my already-scant free time and scheduled me for training, most times by myself, but sometimes with the other Wards. Aegis had given a sort of guilt-ridden sigh of relief when he'd seen the month's itinerary-- as the only regenerator before I showed up, I guess he'd been used as the team punching bag for some time. Now, that got split with me: he took the one-on-one combat drills, and I got shoved against Tinkertech drones until I was big enough for two or three Wards to gang up on me.

Needless to say, it _sucked_.

I hit the showers for as hot of a soak as could be enjoyed. Which was not very, the Wards' showers were communal by gender, so it was like trying to relax in the gym locker room. When I finally dried off and came back to the Commons, I found only Vista, Panacea in the kitchenette, and Miss Militia. No, wait-- Kid Win was on the couch too. "Where'd everyone go?"

"Went out for burgers. You were still in the shower." Vista called over, before turning back to Miss Militia. I grit my teeth. They had better bring me back something.

"Vista, no. This is non-negotiable."

"Exactly, because I've already decided I'm keeping it."

"It's a security risk, Vista!"

"I'll start wearing chokers or scarves or something, let me deal with it."

"Oh for-- Panacea! Get over here and remove the scar, please?" Scar? I craned my head a bit. On Vista's neck was a thin pinkish line, and it didn't take me long to realize where she'd gotten it. I felt the skin on the back of my own neck crawl a bit.

"Shorry, Bosh." Panacea mumbled around a mouthful of... something. Probably sandwich. She swallowed, then continued. "No can do, can't remove it."

I think I _heard_ Miss Militia grinding her teeth. "You put it there in the first place, you can remove it."

"No, Montresor put it there, Amelia just healed it. That it scarred is a bonus." Like Panacea couldn't heal without a trace. I made a face, and circled around to the couch. What, did Vista _want_ proof that she'd almost died? That was messed up, seriously. I'd rather Amelia gave me something to make me forget.

"No, actually, I really can't. Need patient consent for alterations, and she's not consenting. Sorry."

Militia blew out through her nose. "Minors can't give consent, either."

"Also true! So it's not happening either way. Anything else you need?"

Miss Militia sighed, and I noticed Vista do a little fist-pump of victory. "Dropping off a package. Emma, this is for you."

I managed to restrain the grumble of protest at making me get up, and marched over to Miss Militia. She handed me a half-size metal briefcase, of all things. "What's this?" I thumbed at the locks, undoing them with a click.

"An... aide, of sorts. Since your power is reliant on mood as well as external stimulus, these were created to help you with live combat situations." She didn't look particularly happy. I opened up the case and stared at the row of thin metal tubes, with tapered ends fitted with little caps. They kinda looked like fancy bottles of superglue. I stared at them, confused. Miss Militia shifted a bit, as though she was uncomfortable.

"Read the instructions carefully. You're under no obligation to use them, of course."

"Translation," I heard Kid Win grumble from across the room, just loud enough to hear. "You'll get put through all the shit jobs until you do." I turned my eyes on Militia, but she said nothing either way in response.

"Miss Militia, what's going on? What are these?" I asked.

"...a synthetic adrenaline. Tinkerfab. The devices work similarly to epi-pens. Instructions on how and where to inject them are in the booklet, there." I heard her take a breath. "If you'll excuse me, I have things to attend to."

"H-hey! What! Inject, what are you trying to make me--" The door closed off my protests with a pneumatic hiss. An uneasy silence fell as I gripped the open case. Vista bit her lip, then mumbled something and left for her room. Amelia didn't say anything, but Kid Win beckoned me over to the couch, and with no reason to refuse I went. Amelia followed, and claimed the easy chair.

"Epi-pens, huh?" Kid Win waited for me to set the case down, then he tugged it closer to himself for a better look at the devices inside. "Looks like Augmetic's handiwork on the casing. I don't see that very often."

"Who's that? Tinker?"

He nodded. "Yeah, down in Louisiana. Works with cybernetics, for the most part. There's not a lot of pictures of his work, because most of it is _inside_ the recipients." I felt myself blanch a bit. I was getting a really bad feeling, which Amelia did nothing to dispel.

"I hope you've got an advocate, or a solid psych profile," she said. "You're a minor, so you can't give consent for elective surgery, but... well, you're also a ward of the PRT, so technically, _they're_ your guardians: they're responsible for your care, but also the management and provision for your powers. If they can argue your power is too uncontrolled by normal means, they'll have due cause to hook a remote up to your adrenal glands directly." She shrugged. "I've heard stories."

Kid Win nodded, and _he_ at least had the decency to look grim. "Yeah. I know Armsmaster's suit is rigged up to a whole chemical cocktail. Keep him awake, keep him balanced, the whole shebang. I laughed when I heard, 'cause that sounds _so_ like something he'd do, but sometimes I wonder how much of it was his idea to start with."

"That's... that's insane. It's crazy! There's _laws_ against this kind of shit, isn't there?! It's-- hostile work environment, or _something_!"

"Those laws are for normals, Ems," Amelia reminded me. "Parahumans don't play by the same rules, so don't expect to get protected by them, either. Even Winslow had to go over Canada, didn't it?"

I nodded, and swallowed. "Dragon."

I remembered Mr. Gladly going over that, near the start of the year. Winslow tended to focus more on the dry details, like the restructure of parliament, the economic boom, the negotiations with and against the Dominion of Canada, but you couldn't boot up PHO without finding at least one thread about Dragon. Flame wars over the Montreal Dome, photos taken from the six months of protests when the Parahuman Security Association was formed, conspiracy theories galore-- one of my favorites had been that the rogue Tinker wasn't a single parahuman contracted by the Dominion of Canada, but a whole group of them all networking together in a giant server farm somewhere. The programming Tinker had seemingly come out of nowhere, and once she'd been appointed Minister of Defense, Canada's border security and domestic surveillance had shot through the roof. On top of that, with all of Canada's Humans First rhetoric, half the country is run by a Tinker? The mystery drove people up the wall.

Whatever the facts were, the truth was that the Dominion owned Dragon, and Dragon was the warden of Canada.

"Protests like that don't happen anymore, and when one tries, the news goes all in a tizzy over Moord Nag devouring a village or time-laspe photos of Ash Beast's trail, and suddenly parahumans stop being sympathetic again." Amelia snorted. Then she grinned, and clapped a hand on my back. "Guess you'd better lose any fear of needles, eh?"

Cold saliva slicked its way down my throat, and I had a sudden vision of pressing one of those little tubes to my neck, my heart, my _eye_ , and then I was up and running to the sink as my stomach tried to escape through my mouth.

 

 

Later, when I'd cleaned up and calmed down, and Amelia had gotten me some Tums before she went to go study, I slumped back down on the couch next to Kid Win. He'd closed the case, thankfully, and was half-heartedly fiddling with the open guts of a laser pistol. My stomach rumbled, which reminded me--

"Why're you still here, anyway?" I asked him. He looked up, face blank. "I mean, why not go out with the others?"

"Can't," he grunted, turning back to his work. "On lockdown."

"What'd you do?"

"Nothing, I-- you don't watch the news, do you?" I shrugged. "PRT's pulling Tinkers inside on the East Coast. There's been a bunch of disappearances lately. Sphere, Big Rig, Indomitus-- probably a good dozen or so lesser-known Tinkers. Channel Four even went up north and interviewed Blasto, and he's practically gearing up for war. It was pretty cool, there's not a lot of public photos of his stuff, but it looked like he had one hell of a Get Off My Lawn prepared."

"I heard about Sphere, I think. Alan Gramme?"

"That's him. Nobody's sure if he was the first to vanish or not, apparently his wife and kids were on vacation, so nobody knows exactly when he disappeared."

"Hn." We fell into a length of silence, and I felt my eyes drawn back to the slim metal case, sitting there on the coffee table. Maybe I could... write to Daddy, or something? Or City Hall? There had to be some way to get out of this. And yet...

I traced my fingers over my neck, approximately where Vista had been displaying her 'memento.' I remembered the feeling of a bare finger, delicate and cold. The memory shifted from a finger to hands, over my mouth and neck, and I shuddered. Disgust crawled through my gut. Adrenaline made people stronger, didn't it? Made them act even if they were afraid? I'd heard stories.

"Hey," Kid Win interrupted my thoughts. "I'm gonna text Carlos, see if he'll bring back a pizza. You want anything?"

"Uh-- yeah," I said, my eyes still glued to the metal case. "Yeah, I want something."

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

  
**2.7**  
  
  
Aisha got back to the hospital late, somewhere past three in the morning, to find Taylor was already back from her own errand, though it looked like the boss hadn't been back for long. She was sitting at her scavenged table with the broken leg, going over one of her knives with a clean cloth and a little bit of oil. She looked up when Aisha pushed down her power, her eyes getting that unfocused look for a second as she remembered why she'd sent Aisha out in the first place. Then she nodded, gestured to the only other seat, and said, "Welcome back. Everything go well?"  
  
"Pfft! Like you gotta ask!" Aisha grinned, then took the offered chair and dug out her phone. "Got a bunch of pictures, and took notes of the things you said to. How'd your night go?"  
  
Taylor smiled, with just a hint of teeth. "Like you gotta ask."  
  
" _Sick_. Who's gonna be on the news tomorrow?"  
  
"Victor and Othala. Tattletale came through pretty quickly. Going to owe her a lot by the time this is all done."  
  
"What's with that anyway? Didn't figure you the type to keep a debt."  
  
"I'm not." She smiled again, and continued cleaning her trench spike. "But Tattletale won't ask for anything I don't already want, so it's not a burden. And when she figures that out, she should already know the rules, so it won't be an issue."  
  
"Ha haaa, she's gonna hate that. Is there _anybody_ you're not looking to piss off?"  
  
"Nope."  
  
Aisha cackled. "Awesome. When're we doing this chick, then?"  
  
"Soon-- a couple hours, if I can get this memorized. I don't want to give her any time to prepare." She glanced at the ticking clock mounted on the wall. "Got you a present, if you want it."  
  
Aisha dropped the phone onto the table and made grabby-fingers in Taylor's direction. The older girl snickered, and picked up a cardboard box from the ground next to her, and passed it over. Unwrapped, but who cares, prezzies! She tore open the lid flaps and dug around inside, letting out a low whistle. There was a long black coat inside, and it looked like it'd had a thin cape sewn onto the back and shoulders to provide a high-collared mantle. The seams were a bit uneven, so that was Taylor's work, and there was a small crinkly tear near one of the sleeves where the anti-theft device had been cut away. When Aisha held the coat up, a heavy ziplock bag fell from it, and-- _yes yes yes fuck yes!_  
  
"Oh man. You found those bitchin' claw rings! How many Hot Topics did you rob?!"  
  
"Too many. There's some gloves in the pockets. And one more thing underneath."  
  
Aisha tossed the costume--and that's what it was, the boss had gotten her a proper costume, how cool was that?--over the back of her chair, and scrabbled at the odd shape at the bottom of the box. After turning it around a few times and finding the eyeholes, her face split into the biggest grin it could fit. The mask was well-made for a home job, a hollow, beaklike shape, with some paint on the 'bill' to suggest the lines of a bird, and some meaningless swirls around the face area for contrast. Aisha wasted no time in strapping the beak in place and throwing on the coat and gloves. "Aw yeeeaaahhh, that's what I'm talking about! Now none of that 'we don't need names' crap, I want a cool one!"  
  
"You're always perching in corners and being a portent of doom, so I went for a plague doctor look. How's 'Nevermore' sound?"  
  
"I am totally borrowing your book, this is _so cool_!" Her big brother could suck it, Aisha had a costume and a cape name and a team that was _way_ better than the Undersiders!  
  
"Heh, sure. You can accessorize later, though. For now, I want to get the welcome wagon rolling." She was going to get a marker and practice leaving quotes all over Brian's room at his base-- or, no, scratch that. As funny as it'd be to watch him explode... Aisha watched Taylor pick up Aisha's phone and start going through the pictures she'd taken earlier, looking closely at their contents and silently repeating things to herself. Taylor wouldn't rub it in Brian's face-- she'd let him find out on his own, and watch him just bluescreen when he finally did and he realized what his little sister had been up to. Oh man, and she'd get to watch Tattletale try and decide whether to tell him or keep it from him. Two shows for the price of one! Being Nevermore was gonna be _awesome_.  
  
* * *  
  
It was well after four in the morning by the time they made it to the motel strip. Why couldn't Aisha have just stayed there, instead of having to go all the way back to Montresor's hospital? Well, then she wouldn't have gotten her costume and mask until later, so _fuck that_. Aisha-- no, Nevermore, she was in costume-- had locked the door behind her when she'd left the motel room earlier, but it wasn't much of a barrier when Montresor could just pop a clone on the other side of the window and open the door from the inside. They crept in, taking care to move silently and not wake the room's occupant. Montressor nodded at Nevermore, then gestured towards the bathroom-- yeah, yeah, stay out of the way for the first part, she knew. Nevermore's power rose up and Montressor paused, then closed the door behind her with the softest click. Nevermore moved to the doorframe of the bathroom to watch as Montresor took her position in the middle of the room, then raised her voice and called out--  
  
"Bakuda."  
  
The woman in the bed woke with a start and a murderous impulse, a beeping capsule flying from her hand and detonating against the wall Montresor had been in front of, covering the far side of the room with a flash-frozen eruption of ice crystals. Montresor was already next to the bed, moving in an instant of dust and duplicity.  
  
"Bakuda."  
  
The woman's other hand swept away the pillow to reveal the handgun she'd held even in sleep, and she fired two shots into the shadow and ash.  
  
"Bakuda." This time from the foot of the bed, and the Asian woman let loose a startled screech of frustration as she fired again, blowing holes in the far wall.  
  
"Feel free to stop anytime. I can wait." Bakuda whipped her head around to stare at the black-clad figure now in her tatted easy chair. Her hand twitched with the gun, but didn't fire. Instead, she snarled.  
  
"Fucking bitch, who do you think you are?!"  
  
"Fear doesn't really need a name. If it makes you feel better, you can call me Montresor. Welcome to my city." Nevermore grinned under her mask. _Stone cold_ , seriously.  
  
"Don't make me laugh. The fuck are you doing in my room, you little shit?"  
  
"Being polite."  
  
That got a pause, then a derisive bark of a laugh. "Yeah? Well, let me be polite right back and tell you to get the hell out before I blow you sky-high!"  
  
"You're welcome to try," Montresor said, from where she sat right next to Bakuda on the bed. The tinker shrieked and flinched back, only to fall into the grip of Montresor, from where she kneeled on the woman's pillow. The tinker froze as she felt a finger tap on her collarbone in warning. "But it will avail you nothing. You could destroy this whole city block in a Pyrrhic fire, and I would walk away without so much as a wrinkle in my shirt. But I think a conversation will be much more amicable."  
  
Bakuda stayed still until the Montressor behind her pulled away, and vanished into the shadow by the nightstand. "...what do you want?"  
  
"Merely to greet you, and explain the rules I have set in place. I know why you're here, and while you're in my city, there are lines you will not cross."  
  
"Bitch. You don't know anything, and you can't control me!"  
  
That was Nevermore's cue. She crept over to the door, behind the Montressor that was standing guard near the exit, and stepped behind her. She had her notepad ready. Oblivious to her movements, Montresor continued. "Your name is Lin. You arrived here by train, on the 6:18. The first thing you unpacked was your gun, followed by your house slippers that you haven't worn once-- the gift tag is still threaded onto them. Shall I continue? Your driver's license, perhaps?" Aha! Nevermore started brushing her finger against Montresor's neck, writing out a series of letters and numbers that she read from her notes, which Montresor repeated. Across the room, Bakuda's face grew pale, and her eyes flicked to the unopened nightstand. She'd trapped it with some sort of explosive, and it was still undisturbed.  
  
"No, I didn't take your wallet. I don't need to." 'Cause she had the second-spookiest motherfucker in town to do it for her, hours earlier. Checkmate, bitches!  
  
"Shut up. Just-- what the hell do you want?"  
  
"Only for you to follow the rules while you're here. You build bombs, so be careful in your choice of targets-- nothing like schools or hospitals or old folks' homes-- use your head and don't give me cause to be upset. I don't care what you steal or from whom, if you keep casualties to a minimum. Leave the docks alone, that's my current territory. Keep your head down, and you won't attract my attention-- nor that of the snatcher, hm?" Bakuda's head whipped up. "That's why you're here, isn't it? To avoid being taken."  
  
"I go wherever the hell I want!"  
  
"Sure. But while you're here, you obey my rules-- and if you want to deepen our relationship, create a more... mutually beneficial situation? I can do that. I can offer you protection and backup against what hunts you, I can get you things you need much quieter than you can. And in return, I get a few things from you."  
  
"You want my bombs, huh?" Bakuda's face twitched into a smirk. "Fuckin' A you do, I'm the best."  
  
Montresor nodded, conceding the point to Bakuda's pride. "Bombs, but more importantly, your name."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Consider it a form of insurance. There are people who think they have no cause to worry about me. Having _the_ Bomb Tinker in my employ will give them cause."  
  
"Hah! Heavy balls for such a skinny bitch."  
  
"I'll take that as your assent, and be back in a few days, to let you settle in a bit." Montresor stood, and walked to the door, her clones quietly dissolving into ash. She stopped with her hand on the door's handle. "And, Bakuda?"  
  
"God, what now?"  
  
"If you break the rules, there will be no warning. No threats, no second chances. One moment you will have betrayed me, and the next your throat will be cut, and you will trouble me no more. You understand?"  
  
Nevermore saw Bakuda's confidence visibly wane. "...yeah, I got it."  
  
"Exquisite. Welcome to Brockton Bay."

 


End file.
